The Heat Of The Moment
by Teobi
Summary: Started out as a one-shot and has become a gentle tale about the hesitant, developing relationship between clumsy, well-meaning Dusty and prim, ladylike Betsy. Who knows where it will end up?
1. The Heat Of The Moment

_Okay, I'll admit this is a pretty self-indulgent one-shot now. I haven't checked out enough episodes to really know what the Dusty/Betsy/Lulu situation is, so this is just my own 'hopeless romantic' take on things. (Stop laughing, anyone who knows me.) I have no idea of Dusty's or Betsy's past lives back East, and so everything contained within this story comes straight from my own head. However, I have endeavoured to keep it believable._

_Again, dedicated to the other wagons in the train. Callensensei, JWood201 and Louise Hargadon._

_####_

It was a hot day. Not that the other days hadn't been hot too, but this one just felt hotter than most. It was high summer and the sun was a merciless, unblinking eye glaring whitely down on the merry band of stragglers as they hauled themselves across the plain.

Dusty felt his shirt sticking to his back as the stagecoach trundled over the trail, bouncing jauntily along on its creaky suspension coils. Movement like this could almost lull a man to sleep, he decided, opening his eyes wide and then slumping over with the effort. It was okay for Mr. and Mrs. Brookhaven, inside the coach with the drapes down and lots of comfortable cushions. Even in this heat they didn't have to keep their eyes open any more than they needed to.

Lazy summer flies and gnats whisked past Dusty's face, as careless in their flight paths as he was at swatting them away. His head drooped again. He had a vague vision of a table piled high with cool refreshments before he blinked himself awake once more. This wasn't good. Any more of this and he was liable to take a wrong turning, and who knew where it would lead them this time?

Mr. Callahan rode up beside the stagecoach and slowed his horse down. "Dusty, are you okay there?" he asked, concerned.

"Oh, hi Mr. Callahan," Dusty said, attempting to sound alert and wide awake. However, it seemed that this required more effort than he was capable of, and immediately he leaned right over forwards and started snoring, the reins hanging limply in his hands.

Mr. Callahan stood up in his saddle. "Dusty. Dusty! Wake up!"

Dusty began mumbling, hunched his shoulders as though brushing off an imaginary other person. "No, ma. No, I ain't going to school. I went yesterday."

Mr. Callahan shook his head resignedly. "Whoooaaaa there, everybody!" he cried, his voice deep and booming. The covered wagon was about two hundred yards behind the stagecoach and he nudged his horse into a canter towards it.

"What's the matter, Cal?" asked Andy. He was on his own on the wagon seat, the girls having taken themselves inside and under cover.

"It's Dusty," the big wagonmaster told the young pharmacist. "He just can't keep his eyes open. You know what happens when he falls asleep at the reins. We either need to find somewhere to rest up, or find some way to keep that boy awake."

"Well, I'd take over from him," said Andy, "but obviously I can't." he raised his own reins to demonstrate.

"And I can't do the job, because someone needs to scout and I can't trust him to do that, either," said Mr. Callahan with a studious frown. "Not unless we want him to lead us into a nest of snakes or a sea of quicksand."

Andy and the wagonmaster looked at each other. Mr. Callahan was sweaty enough himself, with his big glistening face and large circular wet patches under his arms.

"What should we do, then?" Andy shrugged. "We could pull over and rest, but I thought you said we needed to make up the time."

"And we do," Mr. Callahan said gruffly. He tried to peer past Andy's shoulder into the wagon. "Lulu, Betsy? You awake in there?"

"Go away," came Lulu's voice, her intent clear. She wasn't going to be doing any favours for anyone today.

"Come on, girls. I need someone to go sit with Dusty, keep him awake."

"I ain't doin' it," Lulu said petulantly. "Ain't my job to _wake 'em up_."

Andy shrugged again. Mr. Callahan sighed heavily. "Thanks a whole bunch, Lulu. You really know how to work as part of a team."

The showgirl responded with her own dramatic sigh. "That sun ain't good for a gal's complexion," she protested. "I can't do the Coochie Dance if I look like an old shoe, now. Can I?"

Mr. Callahan raised his eyes skyward and shook his big head. "Lord, give me strength," he said pointedly.

After a moment, Betsy's head appeared in the wagon's opening. "I'll do it, Mr. Callahan," she said. "I'll sit with Dusty."

"Here that, Lulu?" Mr. Callahan called. "Betsy has offered to help. Isn't that real sweet of Betsy?"

"No offence to Betsy," Lulu retorted, "but her whole future don't rest on bein' able to do that Coochie Dance."

Mr. Callahan smiled. Lulu was a pain in the ass, but you couldn't really stay mad at her. A showgirl's life wasn't all frilly skirts and ribbons. Sometimes Lulu had to act like more of a man than any of the real men she was paid to entertain.

"Okay, Lulu, you keep that sweet complexion of yours unblemished," he chuckled. "Meanwhile, the rest of us'll concentrate on keepin' this here wagon train moving."

Once the wagon had caught up to the stationary stagecoach, Andy engaged the brakes, climbed down and helped Betsy disembark. Mrs. Brookhaven had half way pulled up the drapes on the stagecoach's window and was waggling her parasol through the gap.

"_Do_ take this Betsy, dear. It's _marvellous_ for keeping off the rays of that awful sun."

"And please, Betsy, if you would, use it to prod that boy and stop his hideous snoring!" added Mr. Brookhaven, from somewhere inside the darkened depths of the vehicle.

Mr. Callahan distributed water while they had stopped. Then he set about the arduous task of waking Dusty up again.

"Dusty!" he boomed.

"I told you, I ain't eatin' that earthworm," Dusty mumbled, his head sunk onto his chest.

"Dusty, if you don't wake up..." Mr. Callahan took Mrs. Brookhaven's parasol from Betsy's hand, leaned up out of the saddle and poked Dusty in the ribcage with the pointed tip.

Immediately the young man's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, making the whole stagecoach move sideways and back again. "What, who, when, where?" He garbled. After a few moments of blinking and reorientating, he looked around, puzzled. "Mr. Callahan, why have we stopped?"

"We stopped, Dusty, because _you _stopped. You fell fast asleep at the reins again."

"Oh." Dusty looked sheepish. "Sorry, folks."

"That's okay," said Mr. Callahan. "We all know the heat makes us tired, and it is an unusually hot day. But we can't afford to stop more than we need to, so that's why Betsy here's volunteered to sit up there with you and try to keep you awake."

"Aw! Betsy, you don't need to do that!" Dusty was not so much sheepish now as full-blown embarrassed.

"There's no ifs or buts about it, Dusty," said Mr. Callahan decisively. "We need someone up there to keep you awake."

"It's all right, Dusty, I don't mind," smiled Betsy sweetly. "It's no worse than sitting on the wagon bench with Lulu and Andy."

"But there's no shade!" her friend persisted.

"Mrs. Brookhaven lent me this," Betsy replied, opening up the parasol and twirling it around. "This will keep the sun off _both _our heads!"

"Well, if you're sure you don't mind," Dusty said, scooting to the edge of the stagecoach seat to help her up.

The big wagonmaster waited until Betsy was safely up on the stagecoach seat with Dusty, then he trotted his horse back to the wagon alongside Andy. "That poor girl's got her work cut out for her," he sighed as Andy climbed back up onto the wagon and took up the reins. "You know what a sleeping Dusty's like. He makes ol' Rip Van Winkle look like an insomniac."

With Andy settled on the wagon and Dusty and Betsy settled on the stagecoach, Mr. Callahan rode back to the head of the train and gave the signal for everyone to start moving again. Dusty yawned and flicked the reins and the horses tossed their heads and began slowly ambling forward. Once again the stagecoach lumbered its way along the trail, bouncing over stones and bumping into potholes.

"It sure is a hot day, Dusty," said Betsy, attempting to engage the young man in conversation at the same time as retain her balance.

"It sure is, Betsy," was the extent of her friend's reply.

She chanced a good look at him. His hair was in his eyes, his hat pulled low over his head. He really did look tired, and his attention was definitely elsewhere. "Didn't you sleep well last night, Dusty?" she asked, blushing slightly. It wasn't her place to ask a man about his sleeping habits!

"I guess," he said. "The ground was a little hard, though." He yawned widely, only remembering to cover up his mouth at the last minute. "Sorry, Betsy."

"That's okay, Dusty." Betsy looked around, saw the water bottle up against the footrest. "Did you drink any water?"

"Some." He yawned again.

"Well, drink some more. It'll waken you up." She picked up the bottle by the tatty leather strap and prised off the lid, handing it over.

Dusty accepted her offering, though he looked sceptical. Betsy watched him put the neck of the bottle to his mouth and tip it up. She watched his throat move as he swallowed and tried not to look at a trickle of water that ran down his neck, past the chinstrap of his hat and into the collar of his shirt. He put the lid back on the bottle and handed it back to her, dragging the sleeve of his other arm across his mouth. "Thanks, Betsy," he said. "Somehow it tasted better that time."

"Let's just hope it helps you stay awake," Betsy said, putting the bottle back on the floor.

Just as she said that, the stagecoach hit a deep pothole and the whole thing lurched side to side, throwing Betsy hard up against Dusty, almost knocking him off the seat.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed, flicking the reins when it looked as though the horses might respond to his outburst.

"Oh! Dusty, I'm so sorry!" the young woman cried, pushing herself back along the seat as though her friend had burned her. "I didn't mean to bump into you like that!"

"It's okay, Betsy," he said affably, straightening himself up. "After all, you wanted to keep me awake, and that sure woke me up."

Betsy smiled, blushing. "Guess I'd better sit further along," she said, although there wasn't much room either way.

The stagecoach trundled along, creaking on its springs. Betsy looked around at the landscape. It was pretty flat in these parts, but distant hills warned of the trials to come. Meanwhile, the ferocious sun beat down on the top of her head, requiring immediate deployment of Mrs. Brookhaven's parasol. She pointed it outwards and opened it up, thinking that it really wasn't big enough for two people. Luckily Dusty had his ever present hat to keep the worst of the sun off his face.

"What do you think, Dusty? Do I look like a lady of leisure?" Betsy asked, twirling the parasol over her shoulder.

"A lady of what?"

"Leisure, Dusty. A lady who doesn't have to do any work, who just gets looked after all her life."

Dusty scrunched up his face. "No. You don't look like one of those," he said, decisively.

"Oh!" Betsy was disappointed. "Not even in the least little bit?" she posed a little more lazily, twirled the parasol again. "How about now?"

"Now you just look like you've got a bad back," Dusty told her, eyeing her up and down.

"Well, thanks a lot, Dusty," Betsy pouted. She sat up straight again and peered out over the plains.

"I wonder what California's going to be like," she mused. "What do you think, Dusty? Do you think it's going to be heaven on earth?"

Dusty shrugged. "Never gave it much thought," he said. "Just got hired as a stage driver. Guess I was thinking more about what an adventure it'd be, out there in the wilderness away from home and all."

"Were you looking to get away from home?" Betsy asked. "Didn't you like being home?"

"Sure I liked being home," Dusty said, his eyes fixed firmly ahead. "Most of the time."

"Only most of the time?" Betsy didn't want to pry, but Dusty was a fascinating subject. She had decided a while back that deep inside that clownish exterior there was somebody quite serious. This serious person didn't come out very often, but at times like now, when Dusty looked thoughtful, she could tell he wasn't very far below the surface.

Dusty turned his head to look at her, squinting against the sun. "Did y_ou_ like being home all the time, Betsy?" he asked, testing the waters of this impending conversation.

"Well, I..." Betsy thought for a minute. "I guess we all have our reasons for leaving our homes and heading out West. My reason is to become a schoolteacher. They need teachers out West to educate the native people." Betsy lowered her voice to say 'native people', although again, she wasn't quite sure why. The Brookhavens couldn't possibly hear her over the creaking and groaning of the stagecoach and Dusty was the only other person within earshot.

"And you know what, Betsy? You'll be the best schoolteacher in the whole state," Dusty said, treating her to a big grin.

"Why, thank you, Dusty," Betsy smiled, pleased. "And what about you? What do you want to do once you get out West? What are your plans and ambitions?"

Dusty frowned, then shrugged. "I haven't really thought too much about it," he admitted. "Figured I'd get a job on the stages or lookin' after horses. There's plenty o' jobs for a guy like me. That's what I heard, anyway."

"Well, I imagine they'll need all kinds of builders, and carpenters, and manual labourers, and..." Betsy stopped at the look on Dusty's face. "Not that I'm saying that's _all_ you can do, besides, carpentry is a skilled profession, and..." she trailed off.

"I guess I'll just take what comes along," Dusty replied, fixing his gaze ahead once more.

"Besides," Betsy went on, "don't forget what I said. You can always come along to my school and be my star pupil!"

Dusty grinned. "Yeah, you did say that, Betsy. You said I could sit first row, front seat."

"And you could be slate monitor and everything."

"And maybe, if the other kids got a little unruly, I could make 'em all behave," Dusty went on, squaring his shoulders.

"That's right! You could be slate monitor _and _class monitor."

"And then, in recess, I could make sure they played fair and none of them got hurt," Dusty continued, warming to his theme.

"Why, that's right, you could be schoolyard monitor as well!"

"All that monitoring. Sure sounds like a great job, Betsy. It's a lot of responsibility, though. Are you sure it's right for me?"

"I couldn't think of anyone else I'd like better for the job," Betsy nodded, twirling her parasol. "In fact, you'd be perfect."

Dusty gave her a sidelong glance. "Does that mean I'm hired?" he asked mischievously.

"Dusty, you're hired," she grinned, holding out her hand and laughing as he shook it up and down with a surprisingly firm grip. "Fifteen cents a day and all the milk and cookies you can eat."

"How about we forget the fifteen cents and throw in some cake?" Dusty grinned back.

"Maybe you can keep the fifteen cents and earn cake as a bonus," Betsy laughed.

"Like for sweeping the yard?"

"Or painting the schoolhouse."

"Or sweeping the schoolhouse and painting the yard. That's most likely what_ I'd _do."

"Whatever you did, Dusty, you'd still get your cake." Betsy leaned over to pat his forearm, but at that moment the stagecoach hit another pothole and her hand ended up on his leg, where for a moment or two it appeared to be stuck like glue. It was enough time for both of them to look down at her fingers spread over his thigh before she retracted her hand with the speed of a bullet leaving a gun.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered, completely flustered.

"_You're_ sorry," Dusty murmured.

"Dusty, you _know_ I didn't mean to put my hand there."

"No, I didn't mean I'm sorry you put your hand there, I mean I'm sorry you took it away." Only then did he stop and realise what he'd just said. "Whoops."

Betsy blushed furiously. "Dusty, I don't make it a habit to go around...touching men's legs."

"But you didn't touch a man's leg, Betsy, you touched mine," Dusty said, perfectly reasonably.

"And what are you if you're not a man, Dusty? Chopped liver?" Betsy folded her recalcitrant hand firmly in her lap and sat as straight-backed and primly as she could, given the heave-to motions of the lumbering stagecoach.

"Oh, okay. I guess I am a man," Dusty grinned. "But I wasn't offended, Betsy."

"Oh, Dusty. You never get offended by anything. Nothing ever offends you."

"Hey! I'm offended!" Dusty declared.

"What are you offended at?" Betsy asked, puzzled.

"I'm offended at being told that nothing offends me! Plenty offends me. In fact, sometimes I get so offended, I..." he faltered, screwing up his face. "I..."

"You what, Dusty?"

"I don't know. I can't remember when I last got that offended. I know one thing though, it sure wasn't when a pretty girl put her hand on my leg."

Betsy didn't know if it were possible to go any more red than she already was. "Dusty, there's a lady present," she murmured.

"Mrs. Brookhaven can't hear us," he said blithely. "She's inside the stagecoach."

"I meant me, Dusty. I'm a lady."

He scoffed. "Yeah, but you're also the one who put her hand on my leg."

"Can we _please_ forget about the hand on the leg?" Betsy said, her expression pained.

"Oh, that's right, Betsy. You want to put your hand on my leg and then pretend nothing ever happened. You women are all the same."

Betsy stared at Dusty. By the look on his face, she decided that he was joking. "Are you saying there's a queue?" she chanced, bravely.

"Now, see," Dusty replied with a grin, "that's the other reason why I decided to head out West. To get away from all the girls who were crazy about me."

Betsy laughed then, at his droll expression just as much as the words he was saying. "Dusty, it wouldn't surprise me to discover that half the girls in your hometown were after you."

"Except they weren't." Dusty flicked the reins at a horsefly that had settled on the rump of one of the horses. "Only girls who chased me were Augusta Mayhew and Francine Carmichael, and that was only so's they could fill my britches with dirt or make me eat disgusting stuff they tried to bake."

Betsy laughed, then studied the handle of the parasol thoughtfully. "But you must have had girlfriends, though?"

"I had one," Dusty admitted. "Well, okay, maybe two. Not at the same time though," he added quickly.

Betsy toyed with the parasol handle. "And did you leave anyone behind?"

"Mom and dad," he said. "My little sister. And Sparky. He was my dog. But they said they'd take care of him for me. I didn't want him to come all the way out here just so's he could get bitten by a snake."

"I'm sure Sparky would be grateful for the sentiment," Betsy smiled. "But I meant someone close. Someone maybe that you were very fond of. Like maybe a girlfriend." She studied the parasol handle again. It was surprising how fascinating a parasol handle could be.

Dusty shrugged. "I didn't really tell anyone else I was leaving. Just mom and dad."

"What about your friends?"

He shrugged again.

"Surely you had friends, Dusty?"

Dusty shifted on the seat, turned towards her. "Hey, how about I ask you a few questions, Betsy?" he said defensively, although his tone stayed mild.

"Oh, Dusty, I'm sorry. I'm prying. It's just that...well, Mr. Callahan wanted me to keep you awake, and the only way I can do that is by talking, and I don't know what kind of things you like to talk about."

"Steaks."

"Steaks?"

"Yeah. I like to talk about steaks. Big, fat, juicy steaks sizzling on the grill." Dusty closed his eyes and went into raptures, rubbing his belly and licking his lips. "I could happily talk about steaks all day."

Betsy laughed. "All right then, steaks. We'll talk about steaks."

"Mmm," Dusty said, ecstatically. "A whole mountain of steaks, all piled up on top of each other."

"Sounds horrible," Betsy admitted. "I think I'd much rather have a nice piece of grandma's meatloaf."

"Oh, man! Meatloaf!" Dusty was in heaven at the thought. "Right on the top of that mountain of steaks. A big piece of Betsy's grandma's meatloaf."

"And after that, a thick slice of her home made apple pie," Betsy grinned. "all nice and warm from the oven."

"Betsy, stop, you're making me so hungry," Dusty moaned, wiping his hand over his face.

"You started it, talking about steaks!"

"I know! What was I thinking?" Dusty looked at her with comic despair. "I'll admit it, Betsy. Sometimes I'm my own worst enemy!"

"And if Mr. Callahan were here, he'd say that the rest of the time you're everybody else's!" Betsy giggled, then swiftly clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. "Oh, dear!" she giggled even more. "That wasn't very nice of me, was it?"

Dusty grinned goodnaturedly. "it's true, though. That's just what Mr. Callahan _would_ say."

He had leaned forward in his seat but was looking back at her with such an air of self-deprecation that it was all Betsy could do not to lean forward and kiss him right then and there. She had no idea where that sudden startling thought had come from! She bit the inside of her lip and looked away from him, out across the plain, concentrating on anything that would distract her from what she was thinking. A buzzard circling high up in the distance. That would do. Buzzards were singularly unattractive things, ugly and squawking and vile.

Unlike Dusty, who was cute and goofy and...

_Stop it right now, Betsy. Mr. Callahan gave you a job to do. You weren't meant to start enjoying it!_

Betsy smiled to herself. Oh, who was she kidding! She'd jumped at the chance to sit with Dusty and keep him awake. Why, she'd almost cheered out loud when Lulu had refused to help!

"Now you got me thinking about pie," Dusty said forlornly. "I think I preferred it when I was asleep."

"I don't think Mr. and Mrs. Brookhaven preferred it when you were asleep," Betsy giggled, then before she could stop herself she scooted over and sat right up next to him. "There," she said with a cheeky smile that was uncharacteristically brave for her. "Isn't this cosy?"

"Betsy, not that I'm complaining, but I thought you were a lady?"

"Even ladies need to have a bit of fun now and again, Dusty. Wouldn't you say?" Betsy leaned against him and gave him a playful nudge. "Besides, we're friends, aren't we? There's nothing we can to to offend each other."

Dusty grinned, nudged her back. "Nope, nothing."

"Although I'm not sure about putting my hand on your leg. Although it _did_ happen accidentally. And it is a bumpy ride."

"Betsy," said Dusty, straight faced. "I don't think that parasol's working. I think the sun's gone to your head."

She laughed, and sat happily shoulder to shoulder with him as the stagecoach bounced along.

"That's okay then, Dusty. If anyone says anything, we'll just blame heatstroke."

####

THE END...or is it?


	2. The Long Afternoon

_Seriously. I really couldn't leave it there, now. Could I? (bats eyelashes)_

_####_

The stagecoach bumped and thumped and rolled along, squeaking on its springs, rocking to and fro. Dusty and Betsy sat companionably side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with Betsy giving Dusty a firm but gentle nudge if it appeared that he was nodding off again.

"I know you like your sleep, Dusty, but really!" she smiled, after the fourth nudge.

Dusty blinked his eyes open, refocussed on the road ahead, which was scrubby and pitted and had become lumpy as all hell. "Sure do miss my own bed sometimes," he admitted. "Mom used to flip over those blankets, plump up those pillows, boy, you could sleep for days in that bed, Betsy."

He carried on innocently describing the wondrous virtues of his bed back home while Betsy bit her lip and fidgeted, trying not to think of a sleeping Dusty all curled up in a comfy bed. Perhaps he'd be in flannel pajamas with a little night cap on with a tassel on the end. His hair would be all messed up and he'd be snoring gently and hugging a pillow.

_Betsy...behave yourself!_

"..and on cold mornings when I didn't have to get up, I'd just lay there and dream about the future. And I'd be all warm, and toasty and snuggly, and..." he closed his eyes and smiled to himself, savouring all the wonderful memories of his warm and cosy bed.

"Dusty, look at that bird!" Betsy interrupted quite out of the blue.

"Huh?" Dusty looked round at her. "What bird? That bird? That's the same old buzzard, Betsy. The same old buzzard you keep pointing out every other minute."

"Oh, well...it looked like a different bird to me," Betsy said, feigning ignorance.

"Never known anyone so taken with buzzards," Dusty muttered. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, yawning again. In front of him, the two horse team picked their way carefully over stones and scrub, occasionally hitting a pothole which gave Betsy the opportunity to bump up against Dusty, which if anyone asked about it, she'd say was the only way she was able to actively keep him awake. She did it now, even though they hadn't driven through a hole.

"Wake up, Dusty."

"I'm awake."

"Drink some more water. Here."

Dusty took the bottle and drank. "You have some too," he said, handing the bottle back.

"Oh, no, really, Dusty. I'm fine." Betsy clutched the bottle but made no attempt to drink from it. She couldn't put her mouth where his had just been. It was improper!

"But you haven't had any water since you've been up on the stagecoach, Betsy. Go on, or you'll dry up."

_Some might say I'm already dried up,_ Betsy thought sadly. She held the bottle near her lips, but couldn't bring herself to go that extra distance, and she didn't want to offend him, even if he was virtually unoffendable, by thoroughly wiping his germs from around the neck. What should she do?

But Dusty wasn't even paying attention. He was looking off to his left, where the sun was beginning its descent in the West, so she tentatively wiped off a bit of the neck with the end of her sleeve, then put it to her lips and took a small sip. As soon as the water touched her tongue, she realised just how thirsty she was. Her throat gasped for the soothing liquid. She tipped the bottle up and drank from it in a very unladylike way, glugging it like a parched railroad worker.

When at last she'd finished, because there was nothing left _to _finish, she lowered the bottle with a contented sigh and looked over to find that Dusty was certainly paying attention now. In fact, he was utterly transfixed, his eyes out on stalks.

"What?" she asked, innocently.

"I never saw anyone drink like that before, except Freckles," Dusty proclaimed. "And even Freckles left some behind for the other horses."

Betsy looked alarmed. "Oh, Dusty, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to drink all of it! I guess I was just a little more thirsty than I thought."

"Yeah, like a dry creek bed," Dusty affirmed.

Betsy recapped the empty bottle and put it back on the floor. "You have such a way with words, Dusty," she chided. "Calling me an old creek bed."

"Not an _old _creek bed, Betsy. A _dry _creek bed."

As if the difference was important! Betsy wiped her lips demurely. Well, at least there'd be no more worrying about whether or not to drink from the silly water bottle now that it was empty.. Besides, she reasoned, Dusty's germs were probably no worse than her own germs. In fact, Dusty's germs were probably just as cute and goofy as _he_ was.

The stagecoach trundled along.

"Hey, Betsy," said Dusty after a short, companionable silence in which lazy summer flies drifted by and the horses snorted and blew hot breath through their nostrils, "do you want to have a turn?" He held the reins towards her, an inquisitive look on his face.

"Me?" Betsy's hand flew to her collar. "Dusty, I don't know how to drive a stagecoach!"

"It's easy, Betsy. You just hold these in your hands. Here." He continued holding the reins towards her.

"I can't, Dusty! What if I do something wrong, and they start running?"

"Bolting."

"What?"

"It's called 'bolting', when horses go crazy and out of control and start galloping off and you can't stop 'em. Not 'running'."

"Well, it makes me feel better to know what it's called when it actually _starts happening_!" Betsy cried, attempting to push his hands away.

"Betsy, don't be scared. Look, I'll show you." With that, Dusty reached over and picked her hand up out of her lap.

"Dusty! What are you doing?" Betsy couldn't believe he had just put his hand right in her lap!

"Just put your fingers here, and your thumb here." Dusty had the reins in one hand and her hand in the other. Despite her indignation, Betsy couldn't help but notice how warm his hand was, how his fingers felt surprisingly strong. He transferred one rein into her hand, and placed her thumb over the top. "Don't twist it too hard around your fingers, and don't hold it too tight," he told her. "Just in case they pull. Knew a man back East had his pinky broke that way."

Betsy was hardly listening. Her whole body had gone strangely boneless. He was practically on top of her- or rather she was practically on top of him- and he was manipulating her fingers with his own, putting the reins carefully into each hand and making sure she had a firm grip on each one. If she leant forward just a little more, she'd be able to brush her lips against the hair that nestled on the back of his collar. As it was, she could already smell him- the sweat on his neck, the day's accumulation of dirt and grime, and what she could only think must be his own personal Dusty smell, warm and quite unmistakeably male.

Betsy blinked, shocked at her own thoughts and at her body's physical reaction to his proximity. This was _most_ improper! But at the same time...

_Oh, Elizabeth. What are you getting yourself into?_

She composed herself as well as she could, given that he was still so close and was now looking expectantly at her, waiting for her to say something.

"Like this?" she uttered, flapping the reins up and down.

"No, not like that, not unless you _want_ 'em to bolt." He put his hands on hers, stopped her reckless arm movements. "And I don't think Mr. or Mrs. Brookhaven would be too happy if we ended up in a ditch."

_We might end up in a ditch if you keep touching me like that_, Betsy thought helplessly. She held the reins a little tighter, and then the stagecoach lurched and she fell back and pulled on them. The horses heads went up and they slowed, confused. "_Dusty_!" she cried.

"It's okay, Betsy, they don't mind you pulling a _little_, just don't flap 'em up and down, and don't hit 'em on the rump, 'cause that just means 'go faster'." He was leaning on his elbows, grinning at her. "See? You're doing fine."

"Ohhh, I don't know, Dusty..." but she had to admit it didn't seem that difficult to just sit here with the reins hanging loosely from her hands as long as the horses kept moving in a straight line.

"Hey, Betsy, maybe if you just held onto the reins for a little while, I could take a nap," Dusty said, leaning back and pulling his hat further down over his eyes. "Just for five minutes."

"Don't you _dare_, Dusty," Betsy warned him ominously. "I need you to stay awake now and make sure these horse don't run! I-I mean, bolt!"

"But look at you, you're a natural. Come on, Betsy, I'll just close my eyes for a couple of..."

"No, you won't," Betsy said, nudging him hard. "I'll make sure you stay awake, mister!"

Dusty laughed, and pulled himself upright, blinking and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes."Guess I'd better do as I'm told, huh."

"You're darned tootin'."

"Darned tootin'? Betsy, you sound like Lulu."

"Well, no doubt if Lulu was here instead of me, she'd be driving this stagecoach like a pro," Betsy said, feigning disinterest.

"No, she'd be sat there whinin' about the heat and tryin' to switch places with Mr. Brookhaven so's she could go inside with Mrs. Brookhaven, and I ain't sittin' here with Mr. Brookhaven telling me all stories about how rich he is and how when he gets to California he's gonna open up one o' the world's most biggest banks."

Betsy laughed. "I see your point. That is, if there _is _a point."

"Trust me, Betsy, there isn't anyone I'd rather be sittin' up here with than you. Really."

Betsy looked at him. He certainly appeared sincere. She couldn't tell beyond the untidy hair and the goofy grin. But she liked his goofy grin anyway. She liked it a lot.

The stagecoach bumped along, and Betsy held the reins, and decided she quite liked being in control after all.

###

THE END...maybe...


	3. The Shadows of Evening

_These two just won't leave me alone..._

_Hooray!_

_####_

At last they were camped down for the evening. It had been a long day, with the heat and the bumpy trail and the circling buzzard that screeched maniacally as if it were laughing at them for getting lost.

Camping down for the evening was always the highlight of Betsy's day, when she could stretch her legs and have a wash and fix her hair. She enjoyed the domesticated side of things while the men enjoyed unloading the wagon and unharnessing the bone-weary horses. After that, the routine chores were evenly distributed on a rota system, whereby sometimes Dusty would make coffee, sometimes Andy, sometimes Betsy and sometimes Mr. Callahan.

Lulu and The Brookhavens usually escaped many domestic chores because they were so hopeless at them- in Mr. Brookhaven's case, sometimes refusing to do them at all. Lulu's coffee had, in the past, been compared to polecat urine by Mr. Callahan, formic acid by Andy, and skunk squirt by Dusty. _And I should know_, he'd said with an air of authority, _'cause I got squirted by one. _Her culinary skills were just as atrocious. The only good thing she knew how to do with food was eat it. Therefore, Lulu spent much of each evening prettying herself up for the benefit of six other people who largely ignored her looks anyway, seeing as they'd become so used to her sashaying around wearing full war paint and feathers just to sit down to eat every evening.

The horses were tethered down by the creek they had been following for the last few weeks. This creek was also invaluable for drinking water and bathing in. It was neither too shallow nor too deep, and Dusty had even taken Freckles in there one afternoon after the poor pony got bitten by horseflies.

Betsy loved to watch Dusty with Freckles. She had never known a man to love an animal so much, and it was a joy to watch Freckles reciprocate Dusty's love by nuzzling his master's hair and chewing lumps out of his clothes. They were a perfect team of two. Dusty spent hours grooming Freckles until his coat shone. The horse would whinny happily as Dusty combed his tail and mane and picked stones and clumps of earth out of his hooves. It was almost like they were talking to each other. _I know which is the more intelligent_, Mr. Callahan had said once, but with affection, because even Mr. Callahan was touched by the obvious bond between Dusty and his appaloosa pony.

Dusty was with Freckles now, and Betsy went in search of them with a selection of vegetables Andy had said she could have. Freckles liked carrots especially, so Betsy made sure she had carrots.

Dusty looked up as she approached, pushed his hat back and waved at her. "Hey, Betsy," he called.

"Hi Dusty," she replied.

"I hope you're not too badly bruised from sitting on that stagecoach all day," he went on as she closed the distance between them. "First time I rode a stage I was black and blue from here to here." He indicated his nether regions with a vague sweep of his hand.

"I told you, Dusty," Betsy said primly, "it's no worse than sitting on the wagon seat."

"It bounces more," Dusty countered. "Gets you in more places."

"I wouldn't know, Dusty," Betsy said, trying to hide a small, shocked smile. She instead turned to Freckles, who welcomed her and her gift of carrots with a series of excited snorts, tossing his glossy mane and flapping his big, rubbery lips.

"Freckles is always happy to see me, aren't you, boy?" Betsy patted the horse's neck, nuzzling him with her face.

"Freckles is always happy to see anybody who brings him carrots," Dusty grinned.

"But especially_ me,_" said Betsy. "Isn't that right, Freckles?" She extended her hand, palm flattened upwards, and fed him a small discoloured carrot. The pony took it with his flapping lips and crunched loudly, tossing his head and waving his tail. "I'll take that as a yes," she smiled delightedly, rubbing her cheek against the pony's neck.

"Boy, Freckles, you get all the luck," said Dusty. "I wish a pretty girl would feed _me_ a mouldy old carrot."

"You're welcome to a mouldy old carrot, Dusty," said Betsy, thrusting a withered vegetable towards him, laughing when he forcibly declined.

"Can't I just have the neck rub?" her friend replied, hopefully.

"Not if you don't eat the carrot," Betsy teased.

Dusty reached out and plucked the ancient vegetable from her fingers, put it in his mouth and bit the end off. He chewed it for a few moments and then pulled a face and spat it out. "Yuck."

"Dusty, these are what Andy is cooking with, I hope you don't do that with his stew later on."

"I'll just eat the potatoes," Dusty grimaced, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Freckles was happy to accept a third withered carrot, crunching it happily.

"Can I have my neck rub now?" Dusty asked, lifting his chin.

"Well, okay, but you didn't eat the carrot, so you don't really deserve it." Betsy went up to him and stroked her hand up the side of his neck. "There. Good boy, Dusty."

"Hey, that's nice, Betsy. No wonder Freckles is always happy to eat everything you bring him."

As though Freckles understood, the horse stamped his foot and whinnied, throwing his head up and down.

"Yes, Freckles, I would, too."

"You would what?" asked Betsy, amused.

"Wave my tail if I had one."

With all the carrots now eaten by the hungry horse, Betsy gave Freckles a farewell pat and a kiss on the cheek and then went with Dusty back to the campsite.

"If Andy's cooking, then that means I'm on first watch," Dusty mused. "So that means I gotta stay awake until midnight. Then Mr. Callahan takes over."

"Oh, but Dusty, the way you were falling asleep today, that's not fair!"

"Betsy, a man's gotta do his duty," said Dusty, importantly.

"But you'll be fast asleep straight after supper!"

Dusty looked at his friend with a slight frown. "You don't seem to have much faith in me, Betsy," he declared.

"Dusty, I have every faith in you. I just don't think you'll be able to stay awake until midnight."

"I'll just drink me lots of coffee," Dusty told her. "Besides, not everyone is asleep all at the same time. If Mr. Callahan is awake he sits on watch too. And there was this one time that Lulu couldn't sleep and she came and kept me up all night."

Betsy stared at Dusty. _Please let that just be an innocent turn of phrase,_ she thought silently.

"Besides, it's different at night. When a man's on watch, it's his duty to keep his eyes open and stay alert at all times." With that, Dusty promptly tripped over a bucket of potatoes, sending the vegetables rolling everywhere.

"Dusty, be careful, would you?" cried Andy.

"Sorry, Andy." Dusty started chasing after potatoes. "I was just telling Betsy how a man's gotta stay alert at all times when he's on watch." He followed a potato under the wagon and then stood up beneath it with a sharp crack, making both Betsy and Andy wince. "And not only that," Dusty came out from under the wagon, rubbing his head, "he's gotta be able to see out of all the corners of his eyes too, so's he don't miss a thing, like maybe a bear, or a coyote or a rattlesnake..." he stood on a potato and rolled sideways, having to catch onto Andy for support.

"...or a wild potato," Andy finished.

Unperturbed, Dusty straightened up and handed his potatoes to Andy, nodding sagely. "Oh yes, Betsy, it's a mean country out there, most especially at night. Just be glad you got someone like me to look after you and make sure you don't get hurt."

Andy and Betsy exchanged a look. Then Betsy smiled at Dusty and nodded her agreement. "Oh, yes, Dusty. I sure am glad to have you around."

By 7pm, Mr. Callahan's campfire was crackling merrily away and everyone was getting ready to eat. Andy stood at the huge cooking pot stirring chunks of meat and vegetables around, causing delicious smells to waft around the clearing.

"Boy, am I hungry," said Dusty, wearing the look of a raccoon that hadn't eaten in a week.

"Come and get it, folks," Andy said at last, and began dishing out portions, serving all the ladies first.

Mrs. Brookhaven accepted a plate of mostly gravy and small chunks of meat. Mr. Brookhaven accepted his helping slightly grudgingly, peering at the bland looking stew and wrinkling his nose.

"I'm sorry it's not the Royale, Mr. Brookhaven," said Andy, goodnaturedly.

"The Royale?" Mr. Brookhaven said stuffily. "It isn't even the Lucky Horseshoe."

"I think what's _in_ that stew might've once been wearin' horseshoes," said Lulu with a look of disdain, but she was quite happy to accept a portion and even indicated the exact bit of potato that she wanted.

Betsy received her portion next, and went over to sit with Lulu.

"Hey, Betsy. Ain't seen you all day. Well, except from behind, that is." The showgirl speared potato on her fork, held it up and peered at it suspiciously. Meanwhile, Betsy blushed furiously.

"Seen you sittin' up front with Dusty," Lulu went on. "Did you manage to keep him awake?"

"Yes, I did," Betsy replied, a little self-consciously.

"Only one way I know of to keep a man awake," Lulu drawled, chewing her potato. "Gotta keep him _stimulated._"

Just as Betsy spluttered on a piece of carrot, Dusty approached with his plate looking for somewhere to sit. "Mind if I join you girls?" he said cheerfully, peering at Betsy who had gone puce. "What's the matter with Betsy?" he asked Lulu.

"She got somethin' _stuck_ in her _throat_," Lulu said, her tone laden with an intent that went straight over Dusty's head but made Betsy choke and splutter even more.

Dusty perched himself on the wooden bench on Lulu's right. Betsy was on Lulu's left. "Betsy, you should be more careful swallowing," he said, digging into his stew.

"S'what I said," Lulu drawled.

"Please," Betsy gasped. "Can we change the conversation?"

"Oh, were we having a conversation?" Dusty looked pleased. "What were we talking about?"

"How to keep a man awake," Lulu smiled naughtily.

"Hey, isn't that funny?" Dusty beamed. "We were just talking about that before, weren't we Betsy? I was only tellin' Betsy a man's gotta be vi...vija...vij..._alert_ at all times."

"At all times except when he's drivin' a stagecoach," Lulu chuckled. "Betsy here says she kept you awake alright. That true, Dusty?"

"Sure, Lulu. Betsy was great at keeping me awake."

"Well." The showgirl speared another chunk of potato. "I'm very glad to hear it."

"Yeah," Dusty went on. "It was great. Especially when she grabbed a hold of my..." Dusty was interrupted mid sentence by Betsy's sudden loud hawking, coughing and choking noises. Startled, Lulu put down her own plate and began thumping the younger woman hard between the shoulderblades.

"C'mon Betsy, spit it out, honey, that's it. Bet it was a lump o' that ol' horsemeat. Stuff's chewier than an old saddle."

"You okay, Betsy?" asked Dusty, bewildered, leaning around Lulu to look at his friend.

Betsy nodded, her eyes watering. "Yes, Dusty, I'm fine."

"Oh, okay, good. 'Cause I was just tellin' Lulu that it was great when you grabbed a hold of my..."

He was interrupted again by Betsy coughing and coughing even louder than before, causing Lulu to thump her even harder between the shoulders. "Betsy," he looked at her sternly. "I don't think you're okay at all."

"Dusty, can I have a word?" said Betsy, wiping her streaming eyes with a handkerchief. She got up from the bench and headed towards the area at the back of the wagon where the storage trunks were set out.

"Well?" said Lulu, fixing Dusty with a world-weary eye. "Ain't you gonna go?"

"Betsy?" Dusty came around the back of the wagon, calling for his friend. "Betsy, you here?"

"Dusty," said Betsy. She was just a little way off the clearing, in a small patch of shadow.

"Why're you in the dark?" he asked, puzzled. "Don't you want to eat your supper?"

"I need to talk to you," she said. "About the things you say. Out loud. In front of other people. Like Lulu."

Dusty went over to where she stood. "Lulu? What did I say out loud in front of Lulu?"

"Dusty, you were about to tell her I grabbed a hold of your leg!" Betsy said in a loud whisper.

"No I wasn't!" Dusty protested, also in a loud whisper. "I was gonna say when you grabbed a hold of my_ reins_!"

Betsy stared hard at him. She could make out his furrowed frown and hear the indignation in his voice. She couldn't say she didn't believe him, because Dusty wasn't duplicitous. If he said he had been going to say 'reins', then he had been going to say 'reins', no matter how much it sounded like he was going to say 'leg'.

"Oh, Dusty, I'm sorry," she sighed. "It's just that...well, Lulu's always saying things that have double meanings, and I know she's just teasing half the time, but I get awfully embarrassed, and then I start seeing double meanings in everything, and I was sure that you were going to tell her that I grabbed a hold of your leg." Betsy again spoke in a whisper, meaning that Dusty had to come even closer, ending up just an arm's length away under an overhanging tree branch.

"Why would I tell Lulu that?" he asked. "Why would I tell _anyone_ that? It was between you and me, remember?"

"I know, Dusty." Betsy hung her head. "I'm sorry."

"Anyways, it was an accident."

"Yes, it was."

"We went over a bump." Dusty shrugged.

"Yes, we did."

"That's all there was to it."

"Yes, that's right."

"Just a bump."

"Just a bump."

"There's no way you'd put your hand on my leg, right, Betsy? Not unless it was an accident."

"No, Dusty. Not unless it was an accident."

"Like if we went over another bump or something."

"Yes, Dusty. Only if we did that. Or something."

"Why would you want to put your hand on my leg, anyway? it's just an old_ leg_."

"That's true Dusty. It is just an old leg. Why would I want to..." but Betsy didn't get a chance to finish what she was saying, because suddenly Dusty leaned forward and kissed her. She stumbled backwards, caught by surprise, and then his arms were around her too. Dusty was holding her steady, and he was kissing her. Without being given a direct signal, without being given an obvious cue, or even without her having to come straight out with it and _ask._

Betsy closed her eyes and lost herself. This was what she had been dreaming about all day. Kissing Dusty. And now she was. She sighed gently, letting him move his lips against hers, letting him breathe warm air against her cheek, letting him move his hands over her back. These weren't the actions of a clumsy fool. This was a man acting with a degree of intent. And just the thought of what that intent _might_ be caused Betsy to pull him even closer, kiss him even harder, dare to wonder what it would be like to...

Betsy panicked. She broke the kiss and tried to push him away, then realised she didn't want to. He was Dusty. Dusty would never, ever do anything she didn't want him to do. It was only her own fear that was making her want to push him away. So instead she rested her head on his shoulder and stayed locked in his embrace, listening to the crickets and insects and owls and the sound of pots and pans clattering and Lulu's voice and Mr. Callahan talking to Andy and the campfire crackling.

And Dusty quietly breathing.

####

END

Or more...?

.


	4. The Morning After

_Greetings, fellow pioneers! Is anyone else getting the urge to give Betsy a good shake? Betsy- it's Dusty. D.U.S.T.Y. _

_He's harmless!_

_Spev- the Save The Texas Prairie Chicken Campaign continues..._

_####_

Betsy lay under her blanket inside the covered wagon, unable to sleep. It was late, drawing near to the witching hour. She knew that Dusty would be out there by the dwindling campfire, sitting on a log or propped up against the stagecoach wheel trying to keep his eyes open in case they got attacked by bears or coyotes or rattlesnakes _or even a Texas prairie chicken for all he knew._ At first she had heard muted voices, one of them being Mr. Callahan's, but now there was just quiet, the occasional sound of Mr. Brookhaven snoring- _even his snoring sounds like he paid money for it_, Mr. Callahan had said, once- and a lone owl that murmured plaintively from time to time in a nearby tree.

####

"_We should go back and finish our supper," Betsy whispered, lifting her head from Dusty's shoulder. "Lulu will wonder why it's taking me so long just to have a word with you."_

"_Tell her you made a mistake," he whispered back. "Tell her it wasn't just one word after all, it was a lot of words, and big ones, too, like 'prehistoric' and 'sarsaparilla' and it took you a long time to say 'em."_

_She smiled, toying with the collar of his shirt. The material was rough, but at the same time it felt nice- probably only because Dusty was wearing it. "That's funny, Dusty, but Lulu's no fool. She'll guess that something's going on."_

_Dusty relaxed his arms around her. "I wasn't trying to be funny," he whispered. "Besides, I don't see why you're so worried about Lulu anyway."_

"_She's going to know we're out here kissing in the dark behind the covered wagon." She said it lightheartedly, but Dusty's reaction took her by surprise._

"_Well,Betsy, you were the one who came out here to start with. And second of all if you're mad at me for kissing you, you should just say it."_

_Betsy blinked at his sudden assertiveness. "No, Dusty, I'm not mad at you, not at all! But it must be obvious what we're out here doing."_

"_I thought you liked it," Dusty looked puzzled._

"_Dusty, I did like it. I did! It was just a little...unexpected, that's all."_

"_Gee, I wish I hadn't done it now," he lamented, letting indignation settle firmly on his features. "One minute you act as if you like me, and the next minute you..."_

"_Dusty! I _do_ like you! You know I do." Betsy shook him gently by the shoulders because his whispers were getting a little loud, but when it looked like he was warming to his theme and wasn't going to shut up anytime soon there was only one thing left to do. Betsy put her hand on the back of his neck and stopped his protests with another kiss, catching him off-guard the way he had caught her off-guard. This time it was Dusty who felt himself stumbling backwards until he was pressed up against the tree with Betsy's mouth clamped firmly to his, one arm around his neck and the other wrapped tightly around his waist. _

"_Mmm," Dusty mumbled, clearly confused now. His arms went around her, loosely at first, but as the kiss went on and on he started to experimentally caress her shoulders, then tentatively moved his hands down over her ribcage, where he hesitated for a moment before taking a chance on moving them just a little bit further down to her waist, in that soft, narrow bit where the bodice of her dress joined the flare of her skirts._

_Feeling the warmth of his hands there, Betsy squirmed and disengaged her lips from his. "Dusty," she murmured, reaching for his hands. _

_He leaned forward, searching for her mouth. "Betsy," he whispered, "Why are we stopping?"_

"_Because we can't...I mean, we shouldn't..." She laced her fingers through his, brought his hands up where she could see them. _

_Dusty blinked, his face a mass of contradiction. "We shouldn't what?" he whispered._

"_We shouldn't...we can't go any further."_

"_Go any further where? Behind this tree?"_

"_No, Dusty, we can't go any further with...with, you know."_

_He shook his head. "No, I don't know! See, Betsy? You're doing it again. You like me, then you don't like me, then you like me, then you don't like me, then you like me, then you..."_

"_Shhh, Dusty." Betsy put her hand lightly over his mouth. "I do like you. I like you more than I like anyone else here. You're my best friend and you look out for me, and you're kind and sweet and, yes, you're even handsome in your own way." She ignored his muffled protestations and his indignant blinking and went on. "But, Dusty, kissing you is all very new, and I don't want to rush things. I need time to get used to all these new feelings that mean more to me than just friendship." She removed her hand from his mouth, hoping that he wouldn't start talking at her non-stop the way it looked like he was gearing up to do. But he didn't._

"_I _don't _understand, Betsy, and I'll gladly admit it." Dusty said quietly. "I'm _not_ trying to go any further. Besides, _you_ were the one who kissed _me_ that time."_

_Betsy dropped her gaze, embarrassed that he'd caught her out. "I know," she murmured. Because she couldn't think of anything else to say._

_Dusty pushed himself away from the tree. He straightened his shirt collar and britches, readjusted the battered old hat on his head and shoved the hair out of his eyes. "Betsy, I need to go back and finish my supper," he said. Because he couldn't think of anything else to say._

_####_

Noises drifted into the periphery of Betsy's consciousness. She opened her eyes slowly to find that it was daylight, or at least early dawn. She didn't remember falling asleep, but then, nobody ever remembered falling asleep. It just happened, and you didn't realise it until you'd woken up.

She rolled over under the blanket hoping for a few extra minutes of snooze time, but someone outside was banging pots and pans ready for storage. The more she lay there the lazier she felt, so she sighed and pushed herself upright, hiking her tangled hair out of her face and looking across at Lulu who never had any trouble sleeping through the morning's hustle and bustle.

Betsy threw the blanket aside and got to her feet with a ladylike yawn. She collected her bag of toiletries, which admittedly paled in comparison to the amount of gunk and creams and beautifiers that Lulu kept. She smoothed down her demure, ankle-length night dress and took a deep breath knowing she looked anything but presentable. Finally she eased herself carefully through the rear flap of tarpaulin into the cool morning air and carefully descended the small set of wooden steps to the ground, taking a moment to compose herself before the short walk to the creek. Just as she was standing there minding her own business and breathing in the brand new day, Dusty came charging around the corner and barrelled straight into her. His arms were laden with kitchen utensils which he promptly dropped in a clattering pile on the floor and then tripped over.

"Betsy!" he yelled out a warning, way too late.

"_Dusty_! What the...?" Betsy staggered backwards, arms flailing. She tried to grab hold of the wagon for support but the impetus of a falling Dusty was no match for her. She landed flat on her back and Dusty landed flat on his front on top of her with an "oof!" and there they stayed, collapsed in the dirt, dazed and somewhat disorientated, surrounded by a mess of pots, pans, rattling tin cups and cutlery.

"What in all tarnation?" came Lulu's sleepy yell from inside the wagon. A moment later, her blonde head appeared through the tarpaulin and she peered down at the spectacle in front of her. There was her prim friend Betsy, lying on her back in a state of disarray with Dusty spreadeagled on top of her, his elbows on the ground either side of Betsy's ribcage and his face about three millimeters away from hers. "Well," the showgirl said with a definite leer, "it sure looks _cosy _down there."

"Sorry, Lulu," Dusty apologised. He wriggled on top of Betsy and twisted himself round to look up at the woman who was grinning down at him with a look of undisguised delight. "I didn't mean to make all that noise."

Lulu primped her hair and winked at him. "S'what they all say," she drawled, chuckling at her own heavily laden innuendo.

"What about me, Dusty?" squeaked Betsy breathlessly, firmly pinned beneath Dusty's weight. "Aren't you sorry to me too?" She was getting ready to give him a piece of her mind but she faltered when he turned his attention back to her and she realised just how close their faces were. Not just that- the position they were in, why...it was positively _indecent! _At that realisation, Betsy's mind went completely blank and there wasn't a coherent piece of it left to give to anyone. Her head fell back against the ground and she stared into his wide blue eyes, wondering vaguely if he was going to kiss her, and what her reaction would be if he did.

Dusty looked as though he too was caught up in the same strange, frozen moment. Then suddenly he came back to life and pushed himself up and off her, and Betsy came back to life and pushed herself away from him as though he were the Devil himself.

It was lucky they separated when they did, because moments later Mr. Callahan came looking to see what all the noise was. With a huge dramatic sigh, the big wagonmaster put his hand out for Betsy to grab a hold of and pulled her bodily to her feet, almost lifting her off the ground. "You all right, Betsy, honey?" he asked, concerned that the girl had hurt herself because she looked so pale. When Betsy nodded, he turned his attention to Dusty, who was trying to pretend nothing had happened while he set about retrieving all the fallen utensils.

"Dusty."

"Yes, Mr. Callahan?" said Dusty, brightly, with a 'who, me?' expression on his face, almost looking round to see if there was another Dusty in the vicinity.

"It's six thirty am. I thought you would have at least waited until a decent, civilised hour before you set about breakin' all Hell loose. Can't you just slow it down a little? Some folks ain't even awake yet!"

"They are now," said Lulu. "Mind you, I wouldn't have missed that little show for the world!" She laughed, but it was with genuine amusement, and when she caught an embarrassed Betsy's eye, she winked blatantly.

"Sorry, Mr. Callahan, but I was just tryin' to make myself useful. Guess I didn't see Betsy standing there."

"Well, I guess it was partly my fault for standing there in the first place," Betsy interjected. "Dusty wouldn't have been able to see me until the last minute."

Mr. Callahan sighed like a pair of bellows. "I sure hope you two ain't thinkin' of becomin' a double act," he said gruffly, pointing his finger from Betsy to Dusty and back again. "One of him is enough- I don't think the ol' ticker could take another."

"No, Mr. Callahan," Betsy said, feeling chastened, while Lulu chuckled throatily.

After Mr. Callahan had gone, Dusty threw his armload of pots and pans into the open storage chest and turned to Betsy looking more sheepish than she'd ever seen him.

"I'm sorry, Betsy. I hope I didn't hurt you," he said, scratching at the back of his neck.

"No, Dusty, you didn't so much hurt me as surprise me." Betsy shuffled on her feet, aware that she was in her nightgown and he was looking at her bare toes wiggling in the dirt.

"Guess I oughta look more where I'm going."

"Guess I shouldn't have been standing in the way to begin with."

Meanwhile, Lulu was watching them over the wagon's tailgate with her chin propped on her crossed forearms.

"This is the cutest little ol' thing I ever saw," she grinned. "Like a puppy and a kitten gettin to know each other." She looked at Dusty with such affection that he instantly blushed and had to look away.

"Well, I need to get to the creek," Betsy said to no-one in particular. She looked around for her bag of toiletries but became puzzled when she couldn't see it.

"It's up there, honey," Lulu laughed, and pointed up at an overhanging tree branch. Sure enough, there was Betsy's bag of toiletries snagged on a twig and slowly twirling around and around in the morning breeze.

"Don't worry, Betsy, I'll get it down for you!" said Dusty. He went straight over to the tree and began climbing up the trunk.

"Dusty, no! We'll knock it down with something...!"

"Betsy, Betsy," said Lulu, almost reproachfully. "Let him climb the tree. It's his way of making things up to you."

"What?" Betsy swivelled her head to stare at Lulu. "It's his way of endangering his life, you mean!" She looked back at Dusty who was now hooking his arms around the lower branches, his foot braced against the trunk for leverage. "Dusty, come dow..."

"_Betsy,_" Lulu spoke sharply now. "Understand just one thing about men. If they want to do something for you, you_ let_ 'em. No matter _how_ stupid and foolhardy it may seem." She arched her finely plucked eyebrows at the younger woman, who sighed with exasperation.

"Lulu, I can't let him climb that tree just to get my bag of soap!"

As if on cue, a branch snapped and fell to the ground. "I'm okay!" cried Dusty, from further up the trunk.

"Betsy, that boy has nine lives. Plus, he bounces. Let him climb that tree, and let him get your bag, and when he comes back to you with it, give him the biggest hug he's ever known. Don't go off all '_oh Dusty you could've bin killed_'. Just praise him exactly like you'd praise a puppy. Trust me, Betsy. You'll thank me for it one day."

"Oh, Lulu." Betsy was unable to be cross with Lulu. The showgirl had a big heart, even if she was about as subtle as a cosh to the back of the head.

"Look, see? He's get'n your bag for you now."

Dusty had snapped off a long, thin branch and was using it to try and snag the toiletries bag. He was leaning quite far out, but his legs looked firmly anchored to the branch he was lying on. He grimaced with concentration, leaned out a little more, swiped at the toiletries bag as though aiming at a pinata. Eventually one of his wild swings got lucky and the bag dislodged itself and fell to the ground. Betsy ran over and picked it up, and stood under Dusty looking up with a big smile on her face.

"_Thank_ you, Dusty," she beamed.

With that, the branch he was lying on finally broke, but it didn't separate from the tree entirely. It just cracked loudly then splintered and drooped downwards, bringing Dusty with it and depositing him safely on the ground right next to Betsy, where he stood grinning and brushing leaves off his shoulders. "Anything for you, Betsy," he said bravely.

"Nine lives," called Lulu. "What did I tell ya?"

"Oh, Dusty!" Betsy was overjoyed. She threw her arms around his neck and clung tightly. And this wasn't just because Lulu had told her to. This was because she was happy that he hadn't fallen out of the tree and hurt himself, and because he'd cared about her enough to climb up the tree in the first place. Dusty truly was a one in a million, and it wouldn't hurt her one little bit to let him know that from time to time.

Betsy hugged Dusty tightly, burying her face in his warm neck. After a little while, she pulled back and looked at him, really looked at him this time, without fear or embarrassment or any misplaced sense of propriety that only ever served to confuse him. "You're my hero, Dusty," she said softly. "Thank you for climbing up that tree for me."

"Do I get a kiss?" Dusty asked playfully, making her laugh.

"Maybe," she flirted back, marvelling at the sudden warm feeling she got from the simple feeling of relaxing and letting go. "If you're lucky."

Dusty was on to the game already. "If I play my cards right?" he said, his head on one side and an innocent look on his face.

Betsy blushed and hugged him close again. "You always play your cards right, Dusty," she said, with a smile that was only for him.

###

END

More?


	5. Dusty's Day Begins

_This instalment is seen from Dusty's POV. Any background information of his comes from me, not canon source._

_callensensei, JWood201, Louise Hargadon, welcome aboard for another bumpy ride!_

####

Dusty's morning routine usually went something like this.

Wake up. Either under his own steam or by some uncontrollable outside force, such as Mr. Callahan shouting or someone dropping something or Freckles whinnying for his breakfast.

Stumble to his feet, blinking and straightening his hat, taking a moment to remember that he wasn't at home in his nice, warm, cosy, plumpy-pillowed bed.

Stumble to the coffee pot for a quick waker-upper. Stumble to the creek for a wash and 'other stuff'. Check if he needed to shave yet. Dusty could go for days without shaving and even then it only took him a few minutes, during which he always managed to almost slice off the end of his nose and would come back to camp with his hand over his face and get teased.

Go check on Freckles. This was where his day began to get enjoyable. Freckles was always glad to see Dusty. The appaloosa pony would snort and stamp his feet and whinny and blow air out of his nose at the sight of his master approaching. _I've never been anyone's master before, _Dusty had once whispered into Freckles' cheek._ I hope you don't mind me being yours. I know you liked it when you were wild, but I really hope you like it now that you're tame and you live with us. _And to his amazement, Freckles had made a sound through his nose and teeth that sounded very much like "_yes_".

For breakfast, Freckles ate a yummy mixture of oats, bran and water. Dusty would fetch the oats and bran, which they kept in a barrel slung underneath the covered wagon, and add a little water from the creek. He would carry the pail back to Freckles and sit with the pony while he ate, brushing away the flies and shooing off all the greedy little birds that got too close, and he'd talk softly to Freckles and tell him all their plans for the day ahead.

This morning he should have followed his regular routine and stayed out of trouble, but he had gone and ruined things again with his need to make himself useful. Why had he worried about those stupid pots and pans? Okay, so he fell asleep on the stagecoach, big deal, he'd fallen asleep in worse places, like in school in the middle of important lessons or that time his parents left him in charge of his baby sister and she somehow ended up on the roof of the neighbour's barn. Anyway, as usual he'd caused a heap of trouble, and worst of all he'd knocked poor Betsy over and she was probably hurt but wasn't saying anything because Betsy was sweet and didn't like to hurt other people's feelings, which was one of the things he liked about her.

_One of the things he liked about her_.

And that was another thing. Why was he suddenly so distracted by things he liked about Betsy? Why not Lulu? Why not Andy, or Mr. Callahan, or even the Brookhavens, who were really nice when you got to know them?

_Because it's a different type of like, and you know it._

Dusty was confused. He felt like he'd been getting a stomach bug for some while now, but when he knocked poor Betsy over and ended up lying on top of her, he'd gotten that same weird feeling all over again. Not exactly like he was going to be sick, or faint or die, but just a feeling in the middle of his ribs that he couldn't stop and somehow didn't mind, all at the same time. He didn't make a habit of going around lying on top of girls- there had been a couple of instances in his life where girls had ended up lying on top of _him_, Francine Carmichael for one, and boy did he get teased about _that_ for months afterwards- but it wasn't an idea he was totally averse to, and it wasn't as if it had _never_ happened before_._ Why, he'd been preyed upon only a few months ago in St. Louis by this older woman who had offered him big money to ride along with her, but he'd decided in the end that he didn't really want the money _that_ bad.

This was different, though. He knew while he was lying on top of Betsy that he'd done something wrong._ Really_ wrong. Even for him. He'd _never_ had this intensity of feeling before. And right out in the open, under everyone's noses!

Okay, so Betsy had seemed to forgive him after he got her bag of women's stuff out of the tree, but that was only because Betsy was sweet and kind and forgiving anyway. What must she really be thinking of him?

And why did it suddenly matter so much?

So, anyway, because of all that unwanted confusion he was now running late with Freckles' breakfast, and the pony was making it known, loud and clear. He poured the oats and bran into the bucket, trying to ignore the feeling that was still in the pit of his stomach, and another even weirder feeling lower down. But he knew _that _feeling, and the sooner he got himself down to the creek in private, the better.

He set off for the creek at a slow run, because Freckles was getting impatient now. As he burst through the last of the trees onto the creek bank he suddenly realised, too late, that Betsy had been on her way down here and there she was in the water with her back turned, having a full bath.

"Whoa!" he cried, catching hold of an outstretched tree branch and rapidly spinning himself around so that he faced the other way.

"_Dusty_!" shouted Betsy, looking around in alarm, sinking swiftly into the cold water so that only her head was exposed.

"I'm sorry Betsy, I forgot you were down here! I-I only wanted water for Freckles' breakfast, I didn't...I wasn't..." Dusty found himself stammering, staring at the tree, trying to blink away the image of Betsy's bare shoulders and her slender back, and all gleaming wet and glistening with creek water. If he was having weird feelings before, he was definitely having them now!

"Oh, Dusty, don't apologise! Here, get your water, just be quick. Besides, I don't think you can see anything now. I'm under the water!"

"But, Betsy, I already saw something!" he wailed.

"Oh, Dusty, but that was an accident! You can't see anything now! I'm hidden!"

Dusty pushed himself away from the tree with one hand clamped purposefully over both eyes and advanced slowly towards the creek with his bucket of oats held out straight in front. "I'm not looking!" he announced, loudly. "I'm not looking!"

"Dusty, look out! There's a..."

He heard her warning loud and clear, but it was too late. The tip of his boot caught in something solid and he pitched forward and landed on his stomach, sending the pail of oats flying into the creek. "Oh, no! Freckles' breakfast!" he cried, opening his eyes at last and looking round to find he'd tripped over an exposed tree root. Meanwhile, Freckles' breakfast had miraculously landed in the creek without the pail overturning and was now drifting merrily towards Betsy like a little oaty boat.

"It's all right, Dusty, I've got it!" Betsy cried, wading a little to the right to intercept the floating bucket as it approached, putting out her hand and snagging the handle with her fingers. "_Got_ it!"

Dusty scrambled to his feet. "Boy, Freckles would never have forgiven me if I lost his favourite bucket!" he proclaimed with relief.

"Well, tell Freckles not to worry, his bucket is safe," Betsy laughed, holding the bucket tightly in both hands.

Dusty came further down to the water's edge. "Now you just need to get the bucket back to me, Betsy," he said. "I can close my eyes again if you want." To demonstrate, he screwed his face up, eyes squeezed tight. "See?"

"Promise you won't look?" she said, nervously.

"Promise. Promise, promise, promise, promise, _promise_."

"Don't move, either. You know what happens when you move, Dusty."

"I won't move, and I won't look, Betsy. I promise."

Dusty heard her approaching through the water. She made soft little splashing noises, and it sounded like the water was laughing. And she was laughing, although it was more like scared giggling, like when Andy told ghost stories around the campfire- boy, those ghost stories even scared _him. _Or like that time when a big spider got in Lulu's blanket, and the next night Betsy was convinced one was going to get into hers. She made the same kind of scared giggling then. Or like the time when they were still part of the big wagon train, and this guy told her she was "_real purty_" and looked at her weird. That was kind of when Dusty had started to notice her too, because he didn't think the guy should have said that to her, even if a lot of the guys went around saying that to the girls, and plenty of them had said it to Lulu, and Lulu didn't mind at all. And one time he'd even seen Lulu give a guy a crack on the skull with her hairbrush because he'd gotten fresh with her.

"Dusty?"

"Huh?" he almost opened his eyes, remembering at the last minute to keep them clamped firmly shut.

"Dusty, I'm coming out of the creek just a little, okay? Don't look. Promise me you _won't look_. I mean it."

"Why would I look? Just because you're nnnn..." he stopped, biting his tongue, feeling weird all over again.

"Dusty, seriously. I mean it."

"I am being serious, Betsy." Dusty held his arms straight out in front of him and turned his head all the way to one side, even though his eyes were shut, just to make the point. "I won't look."

He heard the splashing a little louder in front of him and then he could smell creek water, and he knew it must be coming from her, and that she must be out of the water and standing naked as a jay bird in front of him, and suddenly his head started spinning and his heart started thundering. His fingers groped for the bucket and when they found the wooden handle they gripped hard for dear life.

"There. Do you have it?" Betsy said, not two feet away in front of him.

"Uh-huh," he said, his voice cracking. He held the bucket down over his belt because he was quite sure that this time his weird feeling was definitely showing itself.

"Good. Oh, and I mixed in a little water while I was at it. I knew how much to add because I've watched you do it so many times, Dusty."

"Uh-huh," he mumbled, eyes still screwed shut, bucket covering his nether regions.

"You _always_ mix Freckles a good breakfast, Dusty."

"Uh-huh." He was starting to panic now.

"I like the way you just put your whole hand in and give it a _good stir_."

"Uh-huh." Dusty didn't even know why her words were making him feel so funny. They just were. He was definitely going to panic and do something stupid like fall over or something any second. He could even feel his balance starting to waver. "Betsy, can I go now?" he said in a voice that was all high and low and up and down.

"Of course, Dusty. And I guess I'd best get dressed, too, because I'm getting all cold and goosebumpy standing here without..."

"G'bye Betsy, see you later!" Dusty shouted, launching himself bodily through the trees, tripping and stumbling but not quite falling, only opening his eyes until he knew he wouldn't be able to see her, even if he turned around and tried to. Which he wasn't going to do, no _sir._

He ran and ran all the way to where Freckles, Blarney and all the other horses were tethered, and it was only when he saw his beloved pony that he began to calm down, his heart no longer pounding like a convict against the bars of his ribcage. He skidded to a halt, landed the bucket of oats down in front of the ravenous pony with a heavy thump and stood there bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath as the hungry pony thrust his head into the mixture and began munching.

Finally Dusty got his breath back. He straightened his hat and tried to think of anything but naked ladies coming out of rivers. He didn't think of things like that normally, so why should he now? He was in control of his thoughts. He was not going to let thoughts of naked ladies coming out of rivers distract him from his duties! No naked lady coming out of a river was going to mess with his day, _no sir_. Boy, Freckles was hungry- he was going through his bucket of food like a naked lady coming out of a river.

Dusty blinked, dismayed. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and shook his head wildly from side to side. _No! No naked ladies coming out of rivers!_

The other horses, who had already been fed, were staring at him curiously.

"What?" he said, pulling a face at them. "Haven't you ever seen a naked lady coming out of a river before?"

Just then, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, something pale flashing between the branches. He turned his head to see Betsy, now fully clothed in one of her demure ankle length, long sleeved dresses, cutting through the trees on her way back to camp. He gazed at her dreamily as she made her way along. _Oh good,_ he thought. _At least she's not a naked lady any more. _

_Except for under her clothes..._

Dusty brought Freckles' empty bucket back to camp just as Mr. Callahan and Andy were going over the wagon, making sure all their goods and supplies were safely stowed.

"Hey, Mr. Callahan," he said breezily. "Sorry I'm late. Had to feed Freckles."

"You been with Freckles all this time, Dusty?" the big wagonmaster said gruffly.

"Yeah. He had a lot to tell me...I mean, I had a lot to tell _him_," Dusty amended quickly, giving Mr. Callahan a sheepish grin. "He was too busy eating to talk."

"Dusty, forget it. Now that you're here, let's get ourselves moving. Okay?" Mr. Callahan said with a tight smile, reaching out and patting Dusty's cheek.

It didn't take long to guide all the horses into their respective harnesses and to hitch them to the wagon and the Brookhavens' stagecoach respectively. While Andy and Dusty worked, Mr. Callahan did a quick recce of the campsite to make sure nothing had been left behind. He made sure the girls were comfortable in the wagon, glanced briefly at Betsy and wondered what was different about her. He made sure the Brookhavens were safely and comfortably ensconced in their wagon. Then he fetched his own horse Blarney while Dusty led Freckles over to the back of the wagon where the pony would follow the train while being safely watched over by Lulu and Betsy.

As he hitched Freckles' reins to the back of the wagon, Betsy called to him from inside.

"Hello, Dusty."

Dusty felt his mouth go instantly dry. "Uh..hi again, Betsy." _Sure hope you're not naked..._

Betsy scooted to the back of the wagon and looked out at him. "I'll bet Freckles was sure glad to get his breakfast after all that excitement down by the river," she smiled.

"What excitement?" Dusty said, feeling his voice breaking already. "I didn't see any excitement, in fact I didn't see anything. Not a thing. I definitely didn't see any naked ladies coming out of a river."

Betsy looked shocked, then embarrassed, then she actually started laughing. "Dusty, I did have an old pair of bloomers on," she admitted.

"You did?" Dusty said, his mouth agape, feeling strangely disappointed.

"Yes!" Betsy nodded. "You really don't think I would walk out of a river _completely naked_ do you? Why! Shame on you!"

"Uh..." Dusty could feel his head spinning again, rapidly this time. He put one hand onto the wagon to steady himself. Then a thought occurred to him. "But...what about?" he pointed to his chest region, then immediately regretted it.

"Dusty, you didn't peek, did you?" Betsy looked scandalized.

"No, I didn't peek! I didn't even open my eyes 'til I got halfway over to Freckles! Gee, Betsy, what do you take me for, some kinda Peeping Jim?"

"That's 'Peeping Tom', Dusty," laughed Lulu from inside the wagon.

"Whatever it is, I ain't one," Dusty muttered, feeling vaguely affronted.

"I know, Dusty." Betsy smiled. "You're too sweet and kind to ever do anything like that."

Dusty finished hitching Freckles to the wagon and looked at Betsy, wondering what was different about her. Was it just the way she was smiling at him, the way her eyes looked brighter than usual? He couldn't figure it out, but he got the feeling she was definitely teasing him. He didn't know how he felt about that, but he decided he liked the way it made her look.

He shifted from foot to foot, rubbing his neck, fumbling for the right words to say before spewing them all out in a nervous rush. "Betsy, it's hard for me to say whether this day's gotten off to a good start or not, but if you get to thinkin' later on that you might want to come and sit up on the stagecoach with me, then I'd be happy to have you along."

Betsy stared at him with wide open eyes. "Why, Dusty, is that an invitation?"

Dusty shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure, it's an invitation. I guess."

"Well, then, if it's an invitation, then I'd be happy to come up and sit on the stagecoach with you later on!" Betsy said delightedly.

"You would? Gee, Betsy, that's great! Okay...well...guess I'll be seeing you later then."

"Guess you will, Dusty," Betsy smiled shyly, then she leaned over the back of the wagon and kissed him on the mouth, making his head spin and his stomach flip and his weird feeling get weirder and filling his mind with images upon images of countless naked ladies coming out of rivers.

Dusty's day was definitely getting better.

####

_I'm sure there will be more...!_


	6. A Stage And A Wagon Heading West

_Hey You Guys! Hello!_

_Firstly can I say I really appreciated the comments about Betsy maybe moving too fast and maybe being just a little OOC in the last chapter. Yep, she was- and I even thought it myself as I was writing- I just couldn't help the way it came out. I wanted to do the whole **naked lady coming out of a river** gag and like a horse with blinkers on I just went ahead without looking side to side at the other details._

_Also, I think it went wrong when I shifted POV from Betsy to Dusty. I suddenly started channelling testosterone._

_This chapter I will get the lovely young lady back to her demure self and I'll just blame it all on Lulu, and try to stay in control of my own urges._

_As Dusty would say, "Hold still little doggie, I'm gonna rope and tie ya!"_

_Uuuhhh...*drifts off into a total daze at the thought of being roped and tied by Dusty...even if it did take him all day*_

_###_

The day was shaping up to be another hot one. Under Mr. Callahan's orders, the stage and the wagon rolled out of the clearing and rejoined the pitted, scrubby trail they'd been on for more or less the last two weeks. As they came out from under the trees they were greeted by a waft of warm air and a cloud of summer flies. The morning sun rested its chin atop the distant hills in the East and peered down at them as if to say _think it's warm now? You just wait until later, folks!_

Dusty steered his two-horse team onto the trail, shifting around on the seat looking for the comfortable spot, sighing blissfully as he settled his backside into the shallow dip he had created for himself over the last couple of months. It was really a one-man stagecoach, but another person could fit fairly comfortably on the seat if they were small. And slim. And didn't fidget too much. For example, Betsy. There was no way Mr. Callahan would ever fit up here with anyone else, or even by himself, come to think of it.

He heard Andy from somewhere behind him, geeing up the four horses that pulled the heavy covered wagon. Dusty was glad he didn't have to drive the wagon- it was lumbering and clumsy and heavy and way too much of a responsibility, seeing as it held everything they owned, even including some of the Brookhavens' possessions that they couldn't fit into the stagecoach.

The girls had a ton of stuff. Every day they seemed to wear something different, unlike Dusty who always wore the same clothes unless they were getting washed, and then he wore the same other clothes. But Lulu had about fifty outfits, all with feathers or frills on, and Betsy had endless dresses that went down to her feet and right up to her neck. _She must get awful hot,_ he thought, then realised he was on a fast track to getting distracted, so he forced himself to look at Mr. Callahan, who was riding along ahead, a patch of perspiration already visible between his meaty shoulders.

Dusty could quite easily tune out the sight of a sweaty Mr. Callahan and replace it with something more palatable, like a giant ice cream sundae, a banana split, a big slice of warm pumpkin pie, a thick, juicy, sizzling steak. Mr, Callahan even looked like a big pink steak himself sometimes.

Dusty decided that wasn't a very pleasing image, so he went back to thinking about the pumpkin pie. His mom and his aunt used to make the best pumpkin pies, sweet and spicy and smelling of Fall and reminding him of how he used to kick dead leaves around the yard when he was meant to be raking them.

From autumn leaves and warm, sweet pumpkin pie to Betsy. It wasn't much of a mental leap. Suddenly he was cast adrift on a sea of kisses and watery nymphs emerging from glittering waters. He leaned his elbows on his knees and gazed ahead into the distance, sighing happily.

"Dusty? _Dusty_!" Mr. Callahan rode up alongside the stagecoach. "Dusty, if you've learned some way of falling asleep with your eyes open, so help me, I'll..."

"No, Mr. Callahan, I'm wide awake, see?" Dusty fixed the wagonmaster with one of his endearingly dopey grins, making Mr. Callahan shake his head ruefully.

"Just make sure you stay that way, little pal," the big man muttered good naturedly, and rode off towards the wagon.

Dusty looked around to make sure Mr. Callahan was gone, then went back to remembering how he had first kissed Betsy behind the wagon- a bold move for him, but she had looked at him like she was giving him permission, almost. Hadn't she? Or had he just done it because _he _wanted to? Which made him _really_ bold- uncharacteristically bold. He didn't go around kissing women when he just felt like it! Even Lulu!

Then Betsy had kissed_ him_, not five minutes after. And that wasn't like _her _either. Betsy blushed just looking at the horses' behinds! Maybe it was the heat. He'd heard about how it drove people insane and made them do stuff they wouldn't normally do, like kill each other and steal each other's horses and bark at the moon and stuff. This guy Flint back East had told him to look out for all the skeletons along the way because that heat would just strip all the water out of your veins and leave you all sucked out and dry like an Egyptian mummy. Dusty hadn't even known what an Egyptian mummy was, but when he got around to looking it up he immediately wished he hadn't.

He shuddered and went back to thinking about Betsy, banishing thoughts of dessicated ancient corpses out of his mind. Think of Betsy in the creek, think of Betsy in the creek.

And that was another thing. Betsy _never_ washed in the creek like that! Not without Lulu to keep watch and several blankets hung from the trees so that nobody could see her, not even God.

_Maybe he'd dreamed the whole thing_. Maybe when he'd tripped over the pots and pans, he hadn't even landed on Betsy at all. Maybe he'd knocked himself out on the wagon and dreamed everything and only just woken up now.

Maybe Betsy never kissed him when he was tying Freckles to the wagon.

Maybe he hadn't even invited Betsy to come sit with him on the stagecoach, and maybe, when he thought about it, she had only kissed him behind the wagon last night to stop him from talking, and maybe even all those weird feelings hadn't been real, and maybe he hadn't even been down by the creek in the first place.

Then he sat bolt-upright in his seat, his blue eyes wide like saucers.

Maybe Freckles hadn't even had his breakfast!

"Mr. Callahan!" He stood up in his seat and yelled for the wagonmaster in panic. "_Mr._ _Callahan..._.MR. CALLAHAAA-AAANNN!"

Mr. Callahan was there in an instant. "Dusty! What is it, little pal, what's wrong?" The concern on the big man's face was evident. "Is it snakes? Indians? Rustlers?"

"Mr. Callahan, I forgot to give Freckles his breakfast!" Dusty cried, distraught. "I don't even know if I put him on the back of the wagon! He could be anywhere! He could be lost!"

"Dusty, Dusty! What are you talking about? You fed Freckles before we left! Don't you remember? I was mad at you for taking so long- which I apologise for, by the way. And then you went and tied him to the wagon yourself! What are you saying, Dusty? You don't remember that?"

Dusty calmed down instantly. So that part hadn't been a dream, at least. Freckles had been fed and was safely attached to the train. He sighed with relief. "Oh, yeah...I do remember. Thanks, Mr. Callahan. Boy, was I scared there for a minute!"

Mr. Callahan looked up at his young friend. "Dusty, did you eat breakfast yourself?"

"I had a couple of biscuits," Dusty shrugged.

"Well, I don't want you going delirious, little pal. I'll bring you something in a minute, okay?"

Dusty watched his friend ride off, then shook his head to wake himself up properly. So the bit with Freckles hadn't been a dream. Maybe it was just the bits about Betsy. Why would Betsy suddenly be kissing him anyway?

Why would _anyone_ suddenly be kissing him?

Francine Carmichael had kissed him once. That time when she'd ended up lying on top of him when he was fifteen. She'd stuck her wet tongue right the way into his mouth and made him gag. He'd pushed and struggled but she wasn't having any of it and she'd gotten him into such a tight hold he wondered if she'd been taking lessons from her brothers in how to wrestle a man to the ground so's he couldn't even move his little finger. It was pretty disgusting but he'd still gotten a weird feeling from the way she'd pinned him down and squirmed around on top of him. Anyways, later on he found out she'd been kissing_ all _the boys in the neighbourhood, including Rusty Red who had big teeth that stuck out in front, so Dusty realised then that it wasn't as if she liked him more than anyone else or anything.

He went back to thinking about Betsy. The two kisses behind the wagon definitely weren't a dream. He knew _they_ had happened. There were a few other times when he kind of wanted to kiss her. Just to see what it would feel like. To see if it was any different to a kiss from Lulu. Lulu wasn't shy about kissing. She wasn't shy about anything. She could plaster her lips to his for three whole minutes and then walk away laughing and shaking her tail feathers. One time she'd kissed him for a _real _long time, and afterwards she had told him it was just to 'restore her faith' in her 'abilities'. He hadn't minded- he liked being able to help. But when he'd asked her later if her faith had been restored, she had just winked at him and said _you should know, Dusty. _And he kind of knew that _she_ knew that not long after she'd kissed him he'd had to go off to be by himself for a while.

But that was the thing about Lulu. He could have a weird feeling around Lulu and it didn't matter. She seemed to understand, and most times she even thought it was funny. But he couldn't have a weird feeling around Betsy. Imagine how shocked she would be!

That's why the whole incident down at the creek_ had _to be a dream. Didn't it?

The sound of horse's hooves nearby made him look round, and there was Mr. Callahan coming back along the trail.

"Brought you something, Dusty," the wagonmaster said, pulling Blarney up alongside. He held out a small brown paper bag. "Here. Betsy fixed you up a little picnic."

"Betsy?" Dusty took the bag from Mr. Callahan's outstretched hand and opened it up to peer inside. "Betsy made me a picnic?"

"Yeah, how about that?" Mr. Callahan grinned. "She said she didn't think you ate breakfast. Can't have you fainting on us now, can we?"

Dusty pulled out a shiny apple, and then a piece of the special cake with walnuts in that they were only meant to eat now and again because everybody liked it so much it had to be rationed. "Wow," he said softly. "Betsy made me a picnic."

"Want me to thank her for you?" Mr. Callahan said, smiling at the look of happy bewilderment on his little pal's face.

"Sure, Mr. Callahan," Dusty said, noticing there was also a big piece of cured ham and some bread at the bottom of the bag. "Tell Betsy this is the best picnic ever, and the only thing that would make it even better was if I had somebody up here to eat it...with...me," he slowed down on the last part of his sentence because he was suddenly unsure of what he was actually trying to say. He clamped his lips together and went back to staring pointedly into the mouth of the open bag.

Mr. Callahan saw his friend's uncertainty and smiled even more broadly. "Betsy did mention you'd asked her to join you up here on the stage later on," he ventured.

"She did? _I did_? I mean, I did! Didn't I?" Dusty's eyes went wide. So he _had _invited Betsy to sit with him on the stagecoach!

"Well, Dusty, _she _seemed to think that you did."

"No! I mean, yes! I did. I _did _ask her, Mr. Callahan. It's just that I couldn't remember if I did or not."

"Like you couldn't remember giving Freckles his breakfast or tying him to the back of the wagon?"

Dusty nodded.

"_Eat,_ Dusty. Feed your brain." Mr. Callahan tapped the side of his own head. "The last thing I want is for your head to get any emptier than it already is."

Dusty grinned and picked up the piece of walnut cake. "Okay, Mr. Callahan, you got it."

From the covered wagon behind, Betsy watched Dusty up ahead on the stagecoach. Mr. Callahan had given him her picnic bag and the two seemed to be talking quite intently. She hoped Dusty liked what she'd packed for him. She'd tried to provide all the necessary goodness that a man needed when he was working, like bread and meat and then a couple of treats like cake and fruit. And she'd polished the apple too, until it was real nice and shiny. No-one could go wrong with a picnic bag like that, could they?

After a few moments, Mr. Callahan rode away from the stagecoach and headed back in their direction.

"Dusty says thank you for the picnic, Betsy," the big man told her when he'd pulled up alongside. "Said it was the nicest picnic ever, and the only thing that would make it better was if he had someone to eat it with."

"Oh!" Betsy's hand flew to her mouth and she blushed bright red. "That's just about the nicest thing I ever heard!"

"So?" said Lulu. "You gonna take him up on his offer?"

Betsy turned to her showgirl friend. "Why, not _now_, Lulu. He said _later on_!"

"Sounds like he's a-changin' his mind to me," said Lulu with a toss of her blonde curls. "Shame to sit and watch a man eatin' on his own."

"Oh, Lulu." Betsy chewed her lip. "What do you think I should do?"

"Honey, this mornin' I told you to go naked in the creek and look what happened. You really wanta be takin' my advice again?" Lulu laughed out loud. Then she patted the madly blushing Betsy on the arm. "He likes you, Betsy. I don't think you should worry too much about whether you go sit with him now or later. He'd be happy to see you either way."

"He does look kind of lonely up there all on his own," Betsy mused, gazing at the back of Dusty's head.

"Oh, I don't think he gets lonely," Lulu grinned. "I reckon he's up there right now thinkin' 'bout how he nearly saw you naked comin' up outa that river."

"I am never _ever _doing anything like that ever again," Betsy said firmly. "And keep your voice down- I don't want Andy to hear everything!"

"Felt good though, I'll bet. I mean, before ol' Dusty turned up and scared the daylights outa ya."

"It _was_ nice to get clean, but I did tell you that with my luck something was bound to go wrong," Betsy said with a grimace.

"You also said that you wanted to learn how to be a little bit more like me, and that kinda thing wouldn't have bothered me in the slightest," Lulu smiled. "'Fact, one o' these days I'm gonna get that boy in the river m'self." Lulu paused then, seeing her friend's shocked expression. "Uh, not to do anything, of course. Just as a joke."

Betsy looked down at her hands.

Lulu leaned closer, nudged her friend gently. "I like Dusty a lot, Betsy, but not in the same way you do. I just play with him, is all."

"I know," Betsy said. "But he seems to like it. That's why I thought it would help if I was a little bit more like you, but after this morning, I don't think I can handle any more of that kind of embarrassment."

"Honey," Lulu said, lowering her voice to a gentle murmur. "All men like a showgirl. It's just in their nature. Even Dusty. They like it when it's obvious, know what I'm saying? When it's right there and they don't have to think about it. Men are pretty basic creatures, Betsy. It only starts to get complicated when they meet a girl who's different to all this." At that, Lulu flounced her skirts and primped her hair. "When they have to start _considerin' why_ they like her. Things that _ain't_ obvious. I can guarantee you, Betsy, that Dusty spends more time thinkin' about the reasons why he likes you more than he does about me, 'cause he _knows _why he likes me. But you're more of a mystery. And if there's one thing men like more than showgirls, it's _mysteries_."

Betsy blushed even more. "I'm not really much of a mystery, Lulu," she admitted.

"Maybe not to me, hun, but to Dusty? After the events of the last couple days, I'll bet that poor man doesn't know whether he's comin' or goin'."

Betsy looked forlorn. "Oh, poor Dusty. I must really be confusing him. I only wanted to show him that I liked him."

"Well...why don't you go on up there and sit with him?" Lulu suggested. "I'm sure he'd be happy to share his apple with you."

Half an hour later, Mr. Callahan had halted the little wagon train once more so that Dusty could help Betsy up onto the stagecoach. There was no mistaking the look of delight on the young man's face as she settled onto the seat beside him and turned to him with a genuine smile.

"Well! Here we are again, Dusty!"

"Sure is good to see you, Betsy," Dusty replied, flicking the reins to get his team moving along the trail again. "See you even got Mrs. Brookhaven's twirly thing to keep the sun off."

"It's called a parasol, Dusty. Para, meaning for, and sol meaning sun. In Spanish. Para-sol, _for sun_."

"Gosh, Betsy, you sure are smart!" Dusty beamed at her. "You'll be the best schoolteacher, ever. I can't wait for my first lesson. Oh, and thanks for the picnic bag! I left some so we could share it later, but you're here now, so you should eat your piece of cake before I do. Here." He reached down and picked up the bag from the footplate, holding it out to her expectantly.

Betsy opened it up and took out the piece of cake. She remembered how big the original slice was, and was touched to see that he'd broken it as closely into halves as he could. She nibbled it daintily, savouring its nutty sweetness, thinking it was so typical of Dusty to save her some, even though she knew how much he liked it.

"Dusty," she said then, putting the cake back in the bag for a moment. "I want to apologize for scaring you down by the creek this morning."

Dusty blinked. _So that hadn't been a dream either! _He tightened his fingers around the reins and immediately tried not to think of...

_...not to think of..._

"I know you were surprised to see me in the water," Betsy went on, "and it wasn't your fault because you didn't know I was there, and ordinarily I _wouldn't _be there, and certainly not...well, so out in the open. But I had just been saying to Lulu that lately I was just feeling so...well, _earthy,_ and _dirty_, and, well, you know how it is on the trail, we don't always get the time to have a thorough scrub and we get so, well, you know..."

Dusty bit his lip hard, opened his eyes wide, tried to focus on the road ahead.

_...no naked ladies coming out of rivers..._

"_.._.so anyway, Lulu said I should just try it one day, just get in the water and forget about being ashamed, and just get clean. She said I'd feel so much better for it afterwards. And I figured, well, this morning would be as good a time as any to test her theory, only then you showed up, and I got so nervous I started acting like I _wasn't_ nervous, and then Freckles' bucket would have floated away if I hadn't caught it, and...and, anyway, I'm awful sorry I scared you, Dusty. It wasn't like me to behave that way and I'm sorry."

_No more naked ladies coming out of rivers?_

"You don't need to be sorry, Betsy, I wasn't meant to be down by the creek anyways. I was only running late because of what happened with the pots and pans and when I..." he stopped.

"Yes, Dusty, I remember what happened." Betsy went so hot she felt like the sun had smeared a piece of itself right across her face.

"So that wasn't a dream, either."

"A dream? No, Dusty, it wasn't. But, you know, we don't have to dwell on things like that," she finished brightly.

"We don't?" he turned and looked at her hopefully.

"No. Not if it was an accident. Besides...at least it was you and not Mr. Callahan." Her hand promptly flew to her mouth. "Oh! I didn't mean it like that! I meant...well, with the weight of him, he would have...oh, my. I think I'd better stop talking now, Dusty!"

Dusty's expression hardly wavered. "Mr. Callahan sat on a chair once, and broke it," he said gravely. "I don't think I'd want him landing on top of me, either."

Betsy got a mental image of a perplexed Mr. Callahan sprawled on the floor amid a pile of splintered wood and had to stifle her laughter with her hand. "Oh, Dusty, you're too funny," she mumbled, then suddenly found herself with a fit of the giggles. "Poor Mr. Callahan!"

"It was a pretty strong chair, too," Dusty went on. "I don't know how he did it. He musta jumped."

"Dusty, stop!" Betsy laughed, putting her hand on his arm, making sure it really was his arm this time, tightening her fingers so there was no danger of her hand accidentally slipping to other parts of his anatomy.

"Not only that, the person whose chair it was said it was a 'valuable antique', and chased Mr. Callahan with a piece of its broken leg."

"Dusty!" Betsy said, looking round to see if Mr. Callahan was anywhere nearby, seeing as Dusty was talking rather loudly. "Surely you're making this story up!"

"No, Betsy, it really happened! I saw it!"

"Dusty..." she fixed him with a beady eye.

"Really! He sat on it and it broke. It _musta_ bin old."

That set Betsy off again, and she started laughing so hard that tears began forming in her eyes._ Mr._ _Callahan, sprawled on the floor amid a pile of splintered wood_. She couldn't stop the giggles from bursting through her fingers.

Dusty watched her with growing interest for a few more minutes, then reached for the picnic bag which she had put back on the floor. He sat up and plonked the bag in her lap, watched her for a few minutes more, and then opened the bag for her with one hand while she carried on giggling uncontrollably, her whole body shaking and convulsing with laughter.

"Eat your cake, Betsy," he said.

####

_Okay...back on track, or still hopelessly lost...? :-)_


	7. Cal Steps In

_Here goes with another meandering little chapter. I do love the Betsy/Dusty pairing, or BUSTY as it has now been coined by JWood201! Which I think just about beats the acronym MAG by a hair's width, although MAG is of course, the original and best._

_####_

Betsy decided she could get used to riding up on the stagecoach with Dusty. He was wonderful company, with his quite bizarre observations on the surrounding landscape, such as saying two distant, gnarly trees trees looked like "a coupla old guys runnin' with their feet tied together" and a set of hills in the South looked like "a fat man lying down." He enjoyed the sights of songbirds and buzzards alike. He told her that he knew the difference between a harmless corn snake and a poisonous king snake but that he'd run a mile if he saw either of them anyway. He told her that he missed his little dog Sparky, and that if Sparky were here now he'd probably be "sittin' up on the stagecoach roof lookin' like he owned the place." And all the while he flicked the reins and whistled gently to the horses and brushed away flies and drifted off from time to time into his own thoughts as the stagecoach swayed from side to side, rocking them together in companionable friendship.

Mr. Callahan rode back and forth between the two vehicles- the slighter, bouncier stagecoach and the big lumbering ox of a wagon that followed behind with Andy at the reins. Andy was an affable, handsome young man who cared deeply about the progress of the modern world. Cal knew that Andy saw true potential in the untapped resources of the West, and even though he was a quiet, thoughtful young man, Cal had a feeling that Andy would succeed in whatever field of expertise he set his mind to, be it pharmaceuticals or engineering or even plain old household inventions to make day-to-day living just that little bit easier.

Lulu, sitting on the wagon seat next to Andy, waved at Cal as he approached. Cal adored Lulu. She was like a daughter in some ways, but not at all like a daughter in others. She had certainly opened his eyes to some of the ways of the world, and at his age and with his experiences in life, he had thought that he'd seen everything.

"Hey, Lulu," Cal smiled, riding up alongside. "Andy."

"Hey, Cal," the showgirl smiled back. "How are the lovebirds?" She waved her arm towards the stagecoach, grinning wider when Andy let out a quite naughty chuckle next to her.

"Now, _Lulu,_ who said they were 'lovebirds'?" Cal chided gently, but his eyes twinkled merrily.

"Well, I'd say they were getting' to be a little more than '_just good friends_'." Lulu replied, primping her blonde curls. "Besides, I think it's the sweetest thing I ever saw."

Cal looked ahead to the stagecoach. Dusty had his head turned towards Betsy and was gesticulating with one arm waving wildly in the air. Whatever it was he was saying was making Betsy laugh quite unashamedly. Even the way she absently twirled the parasol was flirtatious, although she'd be mortified if she realised it, and scandalised if she thought Mr. Callahan had noticed too.

"I wouldn't be surprised if we heard weddin' bells as soon as we get to California," Lulu went on.

"Lulu!" said Cal, quite astounded. "Weddin' bells indeed!"

"Oh, come on, Cal," the wily showgirl winked at him. "He's liked her right from the start."

Cal looked at Dusty and Betsy. They certainly did look happy together. "Imagine that. My little pal, a married man," he mused.

"And you know what comes next," Lulu laughed, pushing out her stomach and pulling a face that was meant to represent a mother-to-be but instead looked like a heifer with constipation.

Andy couldn't contain a burst of laughter. "That's some vivid imagination you've got there, Lulu," he grinned, his white teeth gleaming.

"You men!" Lulu declared. "Suddenly getting all prudish at the mention of marriage and babies! Quite a different picture when y'all are starin' at a chorus line doin' the hoochie coochie."

"Here we go," said Andy good-naturedly. "Lulu McQueen's Lessons In Modern Men part three hundred and fifty six."

"You know it's true," Lulu chuckled, swatting Andy on the leg. "So, Cal- you gonna start havin' to keep an eye on them now or what? Make sure they ain't sneakin'off nowhere after supper, know what I mean?"

Cal laughed heartily over the rattle and squeak of the wagon's wheel axles. "I don't think those two would know what to do even if they did sneak off somewhere after supper."

"Be surprised," Lulu nodded sagely. "All men have that instinct, even someone like Dusty."

Cal cleared his throat. He hated when Lulu was right. His little pal Dusty might be an amiable klutz but he was still a man, with all a man's rightful attributes, and he certainly did seem to be interested in the pretty young brunette perched on the seat next to him.

Betsy swayed on the stagecoach, listening to Dusty's latest theory, that when it was hotter the sun moved slower, just to make sure you knew it was hot. It sure was warming up anyhow. She twirled the parasol, feeling the back of her neck begin to prickle.

"And when it gets right to the top of the sky, right up there where it's bluest," Dusty went on pointing straight up, "it just stops. Right there. Like it's got itself a parking space. Stops right there and beats down on you like a big..." he pulled a face, hunched his shoulders, "...a big...a big thing that beats down on you and is hot."

"Dusty, you're making me hot just thinking about it," Betsy said, pouting.

"Here." Dusty reached for the water bottle, prising off the lid and handing it to her. She took it and swallowed, no longer worried about catching his germs seeing as they'd now shared three actual kisses, even if the third one was only small because Lulu had been looking.

"I know why the desert gets so cold at night even though it's real hot in the day," said Dusty, turning towards Betsy with a proud look on his face. "It's because sand doesn't hold in the heat. Maybe 'cause the little grains of sand are too itty-bitty or somethin'." He pinched his thumb and forefinger together to demonstrate no size at all. "I also know why cactuses live in the desert. It's 'cause they're full of water. Flint told me you can drink it. And he also said that the Indians chew this stuff off cactuses and it makes 'em act funny."

Betsy smiled, twirling the parasol. She blinked in the heat. A fly buzzed past, almost colliding with her face.

"When bones get dry they bleach out white," Dusty continued, "but they ain't white to start with, they're kinda brown or grey, with all bits of skin and meat stuck onta them, then the buzzards pick 'em all clean."

"Dusty!" Betsy protested. "Please!"

"What?" Dusty asked, his eyebrows lifting. "This is all stuff I'm learnin' so that I won't be the dumbest one in class when I get to school."

"Dusty," she chided. "It's good that you're getting an education along the trail, but I don't need to hear all the details of how bones decompose. Thank you." The heat and the thought of smelly animal bones were making her feel a little nauseous.

"Okay," he shrugged. He leaned forward on his elbows and drifted off into thought. After a few moments he perked up again. "How come you can't see colours in the dark?" he asked, looking round at her for an answer.

"Because it's dark, Dusty. There's no light."

"Do the colours disappear, or are they still there?"

"They're still there, only you can't see them."

"But how do you know they're still there, if you can't see 'em?"

"Because they can't just disappear, Dusty."

"Why not?"

"Dusty." she sighed. It was getting a little too hot now for this _why not_ business, and she knew how long Dusty could keep going on the same subject. "Because things that exist and are established as existing can't just suddenly disappear."

"Maybe they just go someplace then. At night. Someplace where they can still be colours."

"Yes, maybe they do."

Dusty went silent again. Betsy watched him thinking, wondering what he was going to come up with next. The stagecoach bounced over a small pile of stones and she lurched sideways, banging into him.

"Betsy, are you all right?" he asked, peering at her face.

That was the last thing she remembered.

When Betsy came to she was lying on the plush seat inside the Brookhavens' stagecoach. She blinked, bringing her gaze into focus, becoming aware of six pairs of eyes peering curiously at her. It was amazing how many people had managed to squeeze themselves into the small stagecoach.

Dusty was hunkered down on his haunches next to the seat by her head. His face was a picture of worry. "Betsy! Betsy! Oh my gosh, Betsy, you fainted!"

She blinked again, tried to sit up, but Dusty put his hand on her shoulder, making her lie down again. "I fainted? Really?"

Dusty nodded. "Me and Mr. Callahan had to carry you down. You almost fell under the wheels!" At this announcement his eyes went wide and scared. "You coulda been _squished_!"

Betsy smiled as Mr. Callahan patted Dusty's shoulder to get him to stop talking.

"Well, luckily you weren't 'squished', Betsy," the big wagonmaster smiled. "Dusty hollered loud enough to wake the dead and we got you down with no problem."

"Except I nearly dropped you," Dusty admitted. "On your head." He accompanied his admission with a diving gesture of his right hand and a whistling noise.

"_Dusty_." Mr. Callahan's gentle shoulder patting became a hard squeeze which successfully shut his little pal up.

On the opposite seat, Mr. and Mrs. Brookhaven looked relieved that Betsy had recovered. "Oh, you _poor_ dear!" Daphne Brookhaven declared. "This dreadful heat. The West is certainly no place for a young lady!" With that, she fanned herself liberally, clutching her husband's arm for support.

"Quite, my dear," agreed Carter Brookhaven, patting his wife's dainty hand. "Poor Betsy, you must travel with us inside the stagecoach from now on."

"But then who's gonna keep _me_ company?" Dusty piped up, swivelling on his heels to glare at the opulent old banker.

"Young man, you are hardly in need of company," Mr. Brookhaven retorted. "All day long we have to listen to your rambling soliloquies on everything from how long it takes for a man to die of hunger to literally how much blood a horsefly ingests from the poor animal's rear end."

"Carter!" cried Mrs. Brookhaven, fanning herself furiously.

"Sorry, dear. But you know what the boy's like."

Betsy tried sitting up again. This time Dusty let her. When she was upright he got up and sat on the seat next to her, so close their arms were touching. "Was it the heat, Betsy?" he asked, leaning in towards her. When Betsy nodded wordlessly, he continued on with,"You know, Betsy, you always wear those dresses that go right up to here," he indicated under his chin with the back of his hand, "and all down to here." he indicated the tops of his battered old boots. "Maybe you should try wearing something a little looser."

"Dear boy, the very _suggestion_!" Mrs. Brookhaven spluttered, her eyes widening like saucers.

"I don't mean like, take anything off," Dusty started, but was stopped again by a glare from Mr. Callahan. Heaving his shoulders, the young man pressed his lips tight shut and stared pointedly out of the window.

"Betsy, you need to drink some coffee and eat something," Lulu said from outside the stagecoach. "Then you need to haul yer caboose back to the wagon and sleep in the shade."

"Oh, Lulu, I'm all right, really! It's probably just a touch of heatstroke," Betsy protested.

"Heatstroke? Isn't that dangerous?" asked Mr. Brookhaven.

"Not in small doses," Andy explained. "Betsy's probably just a little dehydrated. Her salt levels will have depleted. Lulu is right- something to eat and drink and a lie-down for a couple of hours and Betsy will be fine."

"Oh, you poor girl," Daphne Brookhaven said sympathetically. "I wish we had brought some of that Beluga caviare, Carter, dear. It's just about the saltiest thing I know of."

"My dear," Mr. Brookhaven replied, "imagine the stench of Beluga Caviare in this heat?" Too late, he realised the effect his words were having on Betsy. She paled and slumped against Dusty, who stopped sulking and immediately put his arm around her shoulders.

"Now, come on everybody, I'm sure poor Betsy would appreciate it if we could just stop talking about caviare and bodily functions," Cal admonished them all, missing the fact that his words too, were making Betsy go even paler.

"I think I may have started it," Dusty said, looking around at all the faces. "I was talking about how buzzards pick all the old bits of skin and stuff off of bones when they..."

"Dusty..." Betsy mumbled, and fainted again, falling face down into her young friend's lap.

When Betsy came round this time, it was just Mr. Callahan and Lulu in the stagecoach with her. Mr. Callahan was holding a tin mug of steaming coffee, the aroma of which smelled like heaven to Betsy. She smiled at her two friends, feeling embarrassed that her behaviour had brought everyone running and ejected the Brookhavens from their own vehicle. "What did you do with Dusty?" she asked in a small tired voice.

"We put him to work doing something useful," Cal replied. "He made this coffee. Here, just take small sips."

"It wasn't Dusty's fault I fainted," Betsy told them, sitting up again, her head a little giddy but not unbearably so. "I do wear too many clothes for this heat. I've got about two more layers under this," she picked at her blouse.

"Corsets are the curse of the modern woman," Lulu said firmly. "They pinch and pull and cut you off in the middle. You don't need one out here. Who's lookin', anyway?" she looked at Cal, then at Betsy. "Well, besides Dusty, that is, and he's already told you to loosen up."

Cal smiled at Lulu's suggestion that Betsy loosen up.

"I was always taught to dress like a lady," Betsy said demurely.

"Out here that don't amount to a hill o' beans," Lulu drawled. "Fact, some girls even go as far as to wear britches out here so's they can ride and work with the men."

Betsy pulled a disapproving face at the thought of wearing men's clothing. "Ugh," she pouted.

"Not sayin' it's fer you, honey," Lulu grinned.

"You're not ill, are you, Betsy?" Cal said then. "Nothing's bitten you lately? Because you can catch things from horseflies. Stomach illnesses and..." he stopped, not wishing to make Betsy faint a third time- it had been awkward enough extricating her face from Dusty's lap as the surprised young man sat there with his hands hovering in the air above her, not knowing what to do with himself as she lay slumped across him.

"No- I don't think so," Betsy pondered. "Just the heat, I guess." She sipped at the coffee. It was thick, strong, liberally sweetened and very, very comforting. Dusty sure knew how to make coffee even if he messed everything else up.

"You're not sitting back up on the stage, that's for sure." Cal said firmly. "Not today, anyway. Dusty'll have to manage on his own."

"Oh, but Mr. Callahan!" Betsy said a little too loudly. At the same time she caught sight of Dusty himself hovering outside the stagecoach with Andy and the Brookhavens. He was looking through the stagecoach window at her, but as their eyes met he turned away and started rubbing at the back of his neck. "Poor Dusty!" Betsy said, continuing to look at her friend. "I'll bet he blames himself for this."

"Betsy, it's not whether it was his fault or not," said Cal, "It's the fact that he always seems to be at the center of everything that goes wrong around here."

"That's not his fault, either!" Betsy said, her eyes wide with indignation. "And besides, what if he only messes up because he gets nervous thinking that everyone is_ expecting _him to mess up?"

"Betsy," Cal said, smiling sweetly, "Dusty messes up because he's _Dusty_."

"Well, I don't think that's fair." Betsy held her coffee cup in both hands and stared into its inky depths. "I mean, he makes such fine coffee too, but I bet no-one said thank you to him for it."

Lulu exchanged a look with Cal, who sighed heavily. "C'mon, Lulu," he said. "We'll let 'em talk."

Lulu nodded. She patted Betsy's arm as she stood up. "You come back to the wagon after. Y'hear me?"

Betsy nodded. "All right. But I'm not happy about it."

"I know, hun. But I'd feel better knowin' you were okay where I could see you."

Lulu and Cal left the stagecoach, which bounced heavily back on its springs as the big wagonmaster hopped out onto the ground. Cal stopped briefly to talk to Dusty. Moments later, Dusty appeared at the stagecoach door.

"May I come in?" he asked, politely.

"Of course, Dusty!" Betsy smiled, happy to see him. "You don't need to ask!"

Dusty climbed into the stagecoach, which only rolled slightly under his meagre weight. He sat on the plush seat next to Betsy and watched as she sipped his coffee.

"Is the coffee okay, Betsy?" he asked, his fingers kneading nervously on his thighs.

"It's wonderful, Dusty," she said. "You should open yourself a coffee house when we get to California."

"Hey, there's an idea!" Dusty grinned. "My very own coffee house. That would be wild."

"You could open it near the schoolhouse, then I could come in after work," Betsy said, her eyes shining. She finished the last of the sweet, bitter liquid and set her cup down on the floor. "The Brookhavens will be wanting their stagecoach back," she went on.

"You need to be okay first, Betsy," said Dusty. "Besides, Mrs. Brookhaven ain't all that weak."

Betsy settled back against the satin upholstery and looked around at all the fixtures and fittings, the cushions, the lace, the Brookhaven Coat-Of-Arms, the velvet drapes on the windows. "Imagine if this was our stagecoach, Dusty," she said mischievously. "Our own stagecoach, and we were the ones travelling in style."

"Yeah!" Dusty grinned. "And Mr. Brookhaven was the driver, sittin' up there in a big old top hat."

"We could drink champagne all the way to California."

"And I could order Mr. Callahan around." Dusty's eyes gleamed at the thought.

Betsy narrowed her eyes and giggled. Dusty looked back at her with a conspiratorial grin.

"I'd go anywhere with you, Dusty," Betsy said suddenly. "Even if it was so hot my skin melted. Even if it was to a volcano, or a desert island."

Dusty gaped, completely taken aback. "You would?" he asked in a small voice.

"I would," she replied, decisively. She reached out and took both of his hands in hers, curling her fingers into his warm, work-roughened palms. She looked at him with unmistakeable intent, her eyes wanting him so much she could feel them shining.

Even Dusty couldn't miss a cue like that. He watched her for a moment or two longer, then leaned forward slowly and pressed his lips to hers, softly at first, then increasing the pressure as she pulled on his hands, then finally kissing her with passion as she let go of his fingers and slid her hands up his arms and round his shoulders.

Midway through the kiss Dusty took his hat off and leaned further into Betsy, pressing her up against the satin upholstery. Betsy wound her fingers through his hair, twisting great untidy hanks of it in her fingers. The kiss deepened still further, and Betsy began to fear total loss of her senses and yet another fainting spell when there was a sudden sharp rapping on the stagecoach door.

"Hey! _Break it up, you two_!" It was Cal, and he was impatient to get going.

Dusty broke free from the kiss, although he wasn't happy at being disturbed. "Gee, the best part of my whole day and you had to ruin it," he said belligerently.

"Little pal," Cal said in a deceptively nice tone of voice, "if you don't put the young lady down and get your britches out of that stagecoach right now, I'll come in there and haul you out myself."

"Okayyy," Dusty grumbled. He retrieved his hat and wedged it back on his head, pulling the strap under his chin while Betsy blushed at having been caught kissing so flagrantly. "Guess I'll see you later, Betsy," he said, quite unwilling to leave.

"Dusty!" came Mr. Callahan's voice, much, much louder this time.

"_Okayyyy_," Dusty repeated. Then bold as brass he leaned in for one more quick kiss before Mr. Callahan began rocking the stagecoach to get him out.

"Dusty, this is the Brookhaven's vehicle, not a headquarters for your libido," he smiled as Dusty scrambled out, readjusting his hat.

"My what?" Dusty said, pulling a face.

Cal patted Dusty's cheek affectionately. "Your _urges_," he said with a knowing grin.

"Oh. Oh!" Dusty blushed, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Yeah...sorry Mr. Callahan, I think I got carried away a little."

A couple of moments later, Betsy clambered out, straightening her dress and her hair and wobbling slightly as the blood rushed from her head. "I think I do need to go lie down," she admitted, smiling shyly at Dusty, who pushed hair out of his own eyes and smiled back like a love struck teenager.

Mr. Callahan raised his eyes heavenwards. "And I always thought I got away with it by not having kids," he sighed, watching as Betsy and Dusty ambled off together towards the wagon to join Lulu and Andy.

# # # #

_yes...there'll no doubt be more..._


	8. Lulu Lends A Hand

_Okay, here goes- I hope you like this one, it was kind of written in a hurry, and then I got scared my internet would go off (again) so it was a case of publish and be damned. That's my excuse anyway._

####

Betsy tried laying down but the jerky, bumpy movements of the wagon made her feel ill, so, with Lulu's help, she spent the rest of the afternoon propped up on a mound of blankets and pillows clutching a damp cloth which she used to wipe her face with when the heat became too much.

She thought about the day's events and felt guilty for making a spectacle of herself. Not only for causing the wagon train to stop, but also for letting Dusty kiss her like that in full view of anyone who cared to look through the stagecoach window.

Oh, but who was she kidding. Being that close to Dusty always made her want to kiss him, and now it appeared she was actively encouraging him.

Betsy felt torn. Her straight-laced upbringing had drummed it into her that a lady must never make the first move. Not even if it meant missing out on the man of your dreams, and that was the bit Betsy could never understand, because a shy man like Dusty wouldn't always see an opportunity when it presented itself. For the most part Dusty was more concerned with the welfare of his beloved pony Freckles than he was even with his own health and well being. He was not a self-conscious man, and not even particularly observant of the moods and attitudes of his fellow travellers. Dusty just lived in his own little bubble.

_Mother would be shocked if she saw the way I was behaving_, Betsy thought sadly. _She'd be making me sit up straight with my hands clasped in my lap and I'd have to wait for Dusty to bring me flowers and ask for permission even just to sit in the same room as me._

And what if Dusty didn't have the patience for the formal approach? Why, he'd just get nervous and the next thing you knew the vase would be broken and the flowers would be scattered and there'd be water all over mother's precious couch and daddy would chase Dusty out of the house shouting things like "_you're not fit for my daughter you clumsy idiot_!"

Betsy drew the dampened cloth across her forehead as the wagon jolted over the trail. It seemed she thought of nothing but Dusty these days.

####

Dusty sat on the stage by himself, bored now that he didn't have any company. He didn't know why Betsy had fainted- he hoped it wasn't because of him. When she'd toppled sideways and almost fallen off the seat he'd had to quickly wrap one arm tight around her waist and brace his feet hard up against the footplate just to stop them both from falling off. _Mr. Caaalllaaahhhaaannn!_ He'd yelled at the top of his lungs, pulling back on the reins to halt the horses, the prickle of fear making his skin crawl all over. _Mr. Caaalllaaahhhaaannn! _

When Mr. Callahan had arrived, Dusty had been frantically patting Betsy's cheek and saying her name over and over, trying to get her to wake up. Mr. Callahan had climbed onto the stage and immediately took the young woman into his arms but Dusty wouldn't let go either, so they'd had to struggle down off the footplate as best they could with the dead weight of Betsy folded up between them. _What's happened to her, Mr. Callahan? What's happened to her?_

Mr. Callahan, and then Andy, reassured him that she'd just fainted, that the heat sometimes made people so weak that their bloodstream stopped working properly and didn't give them enough oxygen in their brain. That was good enough for Dusty- he trusted Mr. Callahan implicitly and he knew that Andy was a much cleverer man than he was. He'd finally let go of Betsy and allowed Mr. Callahan to take her into the stagecoach, but he'd watched all the way to make sure she was okay.

A little smile tugged at his lips as he thought on further. Was it right to kiss a girl after she'd just fainted? He blinked dreamily. It sure _felt_ right. The look that she gave him was unlike anything he'd ever experienced and the way she'd held him made him tingle all over right down to his toes which curled up tight in his boots as her lips moved softly against his. In fact, if he thought about it, he could still feel her kiss now, a gentle caress across his lips and cheek. Unless it was just the breeze- but he didn't care. Breeze or kiss, it all felt so gosh darned _good_.

He remembered a small incident that happened when they were still in St. Louis boarding the main wagon train- the one they'd been a part of before he'd gotten them separated and then lost. Betsy- although he didn't know her then, much less what she was called- had dropped a pair of gloves on the ground and carried on walking, oblivious to the fact that they were lost. He'd rushed over and grabbed them off the floor and run after her, then a dog had run through his legs and sent him sprawling in a heap, causing the gloves to get covered in dirt. The commotion had made several people turn around, including Betsy, who had smiled at the sight of the young man lying face down on the ground with one arm raised, waving the soiled gloves in her direction._ Miss, you dropped your gloves! _She had come over to him and taken them from his outstretched hand and had thanked him with a big beaming smile, laughing as she walked off with her gloves, leaving him grinning like an inane idiot, still lying on the ground.

He doubt she remembered it, but he thought about it all the time.

####

That evening as the sun went down and they began unpacking for camp, Betsy ventured out of the wagon to get some fresh air. Within moments Dusty appeared at her side out of nowhere, his face a picture of concern.

"Are you all right now, Betsy?" he asked, fixing her with his guileless blue eyes, making her stomach flip over and her face start burning.

"Yes, Dusty, I feel much better now thank you," Betsy replied, her throat feeling strangely dry as the butterflies danced inside her.

"I'm making some coffee," Dusty ventured further, hitching up his gun belt and looking a little unsure of himself.

"Oh, that would be lovely," Betsy smiled. "You make the best coffee, Dusty."

He grinned shyly. "Still thinkin' about that coffee house," he said, as though it were some kind of big secret between them.

Betsy lowered her eyes demurely, but that only made things worse as now she found herself looking at his gun belt...and surrounding areas. Her cheeks flamed red, she bit her lip to stop herself from thinking thoughts she shouldn't be thinking. Finally she had to look away completely, over to where Mr. Callahan and Andy were unhitching the horses, a nice, safe piece of imagery that didn't arouse her in the least.

"Want to come sit with me while I make it?" Dusty asked hopefully.

"Oh! I'd love to, Dusty," Betsy found herself saying, "but first I need to...um, you know. Have a wash and, um...freshen up." She blushed scarlet.

"Oh, okay, sure," Dusty mumbled, scuffing his toes through the dirt. "Oh, hey...I could bring you some hot water, how about that? There's a wash bowl in the back of the wagon, I'll fill it for you."

"Why, thank you, Dusty, that would be wonderful!" Betsy smiled, genuinely thankful. "It'll be lovely to have a hot wash. I'll go get the bowl ready." She turned back to the wagon, hoping he wouldn't see just how excited she was, then turned around again as she got to the tailgate to find that he was already gone.

Betsy found a small secluded area away from the wagon to set the water bowl down. As she was clearing debris from the ground, Lulu appeared.

"Hey, sugar," she grinned. "Good to see you up and about. Whatcha up to?"

"Dusty's bringing me some hot water for a wash," Betsy said, feeling the way her lips stretched wide into a beaming smile at the mere mention of Dusty's name.

"He is, is he?" Lulu swayed her hips, eyed the bowl on the floor. "He gonna scrub your back for you too?"

"Lulu!" Betsy cried, a little too loudly, then dropped her voice to a whisper. "That's not fair."

"I'm teasin' you, hun," Lulu laughed. "You know I'm on your side. Dusty's just about the sweetest boy who ever lived. Any man who looks after his woman like that is worth keepin' hold of."

Betsy's heart jumped. Was Lulu saying that Betsy was Dusty's woman?

Just then Dusty rounded the corner past the wagon with a large jug clasped in both hands. When he saw Lulu with Betsy he hesitated, but then seemed to puff his chest out and approached the girls, wearing a look of complete nonchalance. "Hey, Lulu," he said by way of greeting. "Just bringin' Betsy some water."

"You don't need to explain, Dusty," Lulu smiled. "Maybe you could bring me one too while yer at it." With that she chuckled throatily, winked at Betsy and disappeared back through the trees towards the campsite.

"Where did she come from?" Dusty asked, slopping a little water out of the jug as he turned to make sure the showgirl had gone.

"I don't know," Betsy giggled. "Maybe she thought I needed a chaperone."

"Oh. Why would you need a chaperone?"

"So that I'm not out here all alone with you," Betsy smiled, looking coyly at the ground.

"Oh." Dusty thought about that, then slopped even more water out of the jug.

"Dusty, you'd better fill the bowl before all the water's gone," Betsy laughed. She watched him as he bent down and tipped the jug's contents into the bowl, feeling the warm steam rising up into both their faces.

"I could get you some more," Dusty offered. "Be no problem."

Betsy bent and felt the temperature with her hand. "It's okay, Dusty, this should do. Thank you for bringing it, it's perfect."

"It was my pleasure, Betsy," he said, watching her trail her fingers in the water.

Betsy stood up and faced him, wondering if he was waiting for something. A kiss? There wasn't anyone else around, it would be a perfect opportunity. She stepped a little closer to him, unable to clearly see his shadowed features but knowing he was looking at her quite intently. She leaned in, put her fingers gently on his chest, tipped her face up to meet his, when...

"_Dusty_! Dusty, where are you, little pal?"

"Oh, _no_!" Dusty murmured. "Mr. Callahan. _Again_."

"_Dusty, come on little pal, time to get started on supper._" Mr. Callahan called again.

Betsy giggled. "Oh, dear, Dusty. I have a feeling we're being watched."

"Watched? They better not be watchin' you out here getting' a wash," Dusty said indignantly.

"Not me, Dusty, us. When we're alone together."

"Does that mean I can't kiss you?" he asked bluntly.

"No, it just means we'll have to be careful," Betsy told him.

"What do they think we're out here doing?" Dusty asked, quite innocently.

"I don't know," Betsy replied bashfully. "But _we _know we're not doing anything, right, Dusty?"

"Not if _they_ keep showin' up," Dusty said mournfully.

"_Dusty! Get out here, now_!" Mr. Callahan called again, sharply this time.

Betsy hugged him quickly and kissed his cheek. "Go on and make your coffee," she said softly. "I'll come out and sit with you when I'm ready."

####

After washing and changing her clothes, Betsy went out into the main camp area. If she'd thought she could just quietly go over and sit with Dusty she was mistaken. Everyone immediately started fussing around her, asking her how she was. Daphne Brookhaven was quite vocal about the conditions on the trail being unsuitable for ladies with delicate constitutions. Betsy felt like saying_ I'm not that delicate, Mrs. Brookhaven, I'm not made of fine china._ But it was impossible to dispute the Brookhavens, they had an innate sense of superiority where morals- and money- were concerned. Andy came over and put his hand against her forehead, saying that her temperature felt normal and she no longer looked quite so pale- not in the fire light, anyway. Mr. Callahan brought her some coffee and made her sit down on a log, and then he sat down next to her, with Lulu promptly parking herself on the other side. Dusty, hovering nearby, sighed briefly and then went back to stirring the pot of stew they were going to be having for their supper.

"Now, Betsy," said Mr. Callahan, "we want you to eat a decent meal tonight and take it easy. No getting up to do chores. Dusty can take care of the dishes and the sweeping and the firewood. You just take it easy."

Betsy looked over at Dusty who was pulling faces to himself. "Dusty doesn't have to do everything," she protested.

"Sweetheart, it's his turn," Mr. Callahan insisted, patting her hand.

"It's always my turn," Betsy heard Dusty mutter, slopping his ladle around in the stew.

"What's that, little pal?" Mr. Callahan said with a grin.

"_Nothing, Mr. Callahan_," Dusty responded with a childish grimace.

Betsy felt embarrassed by all the attention while poor Dusty was being sidelined. She hoped they weren't going to start suspecting that every time she and Dusty were alone together it was Dusty who instigated it. She would have to set them straight on that fact! She watched Dusty cooking the supper. All she wanted to do was go over and put her arms around him, he looked so in need of a hug.

He tried so hard, all the time, to do the right thing.

She couldn't even sit next to him while they ate, because this time Mrs. Brookhaven was on one side of her with Lulu on the other. Dusty had to sit on the opposite log with Andy and Mr. Callahan, as though the camp was suddenly segregated into male and female sections.

She picked at her food and didn't even feel like eating. While she had been washing in her lovely warm, soapy water she had been eagerly anticipating a nice hot plate of meat and vegetables, but now that the food was in front of her, her appetite was almost non-existent. It didn't help that Daphne Brookhaven's voice was like sharp glass in one ear, and Lulu gossiping away on the other side was just making her want to scream. She kept glancing over at Dusty, and found he was looking at her too. They had to have a conversation with their eyes because everyone else was jabbering so much.

"Honey, you've hardly eaten a thing," Lulu said, watching Betsy push clumps of meat around her plate.

"I'm not really hungry any more," Betsy confessed, looking up at Lulu's worried expression.

Lulu searched her friend's face with large, heavily made-up eyes. "I see how you keep lookin' over at him," she said, nodding her head towards where the men were sitting.

Betsy sighed. "It's like suddenly we're being kept apart," she said quietly. "And Dusty hasn't done anything wrong. He's a gentleman. Why is everyone so worried about us being alone?"

"Maybe we're just concerned for you, honey," Lulu said. "Out here on the trail, anything could happen."

"Like what?" Betsy lowered her voice so that Mrs. Brookhaven wouldn't hear.

"Like..." Lulu shrugged. "Honey, we're concerned, that's all. You know Dusty is Cal's 'little pal'- well, like a son, really. Guess he thinks Dusty's tryin' to run before he can walk, know what I'm sayin'?"

"No, I can't say I do," Betsy replied. "Dusty's always getting the blame for things he hasn't done. It's not like he's _trying _to get me alone or anything." She stabbed a piece of carrot so hard that it flew off the plate and landed on the ground. "We don't need to be watched," she muttered.

"Aw, honey, don't feel that way," Lulu smiled. "I'm your friend, right? And Cal's your friend too. No-one's tryin' to stop you gettin' to know Dusty, it's just that, well, think of it this way. If you'd met Dusty in a big city do you think you'd-a felt the same? Out here there really ain't much choice, know what I'm sayin'?"

Betsy stared wide eyed at Lulu. "What? Are you suggesting I'm only...that Dusty and I are...because there isn't _anyone else_?"

"Honey, I'm just sayin'. You're movin' awful fast, and that ain't like you. The heat does strange things- that and the lack o' different company. You see him every single day, it's kind of natural that an attachment would form. You know how I feel about you and Dusty, I'm just sayin' maybe you oughta slow down."

"Lulu, how could you?" Betsy whispered crossly. "One minute you're all for it, and now it's as if you and Mr. Callahan have suddenly joined forces to act like...like...well, I was going to say 'moral guardians', but..." Betsy left the sentence unfinished but the message was clear. No _showgirl_ had the right to tell her how to conduct herself.

Lulu breathed in sharply. "Honey, I'm gonna pretend like you never said that."

"I'm sorry, Lulu, I didn't mean it the way it sounded." said Betsy. "But Dusty and I aren't children. We don't need chaperoning."

"On the contrary, my dear," came a sudden voice from her other side- Daphne Brookhaven had apparently been listening all along. "Of course you must be chaperoned! Why, we've already encountered lawless Indians and escaped convicts and those two _dreadful_ ruffians who kidnapped you and Lulu and held you in that abandoned shack."

"Mrs. Brookhaven, you can't possibly put Dusty into the same category as those people. Besides, I remember Dusty doing everything he could to help get us away from those awful men- including dressing up in my clothes, which he hated." She glanced over at Dusty again, who looked as though he was getting a lecture of his own from Mr. Callahan. "It's just not fair. All I wanted was to sit with him at supper. It's no different to sitting with him on the stagecoach."

"My dear, we have no quarrel with you sitting on the stagecoach," said Mrs. Brookhaven sweetly. "It's what you were doing _inside_ the stagecoach that worries us."

Betsy was horrified. "Mrs. Brookhaven! There was nothing _untoward_ going on in that stagecoach!"

"Well, Betsy dear, the boy was hardly giving you a peck on the cheek, it looked more to me like the kiss of life!"

"Well, I don't think that's anybody's business," Betsy protested, gripping her plate until her knuckles went white.

"It is our business when it's our stagecoach," Mrs. Brookhaven said, "and my husband is funding this wagon train."

"Why, Mrs. Brookhaven, I had no idea you felt so strongly about me and Dusty- in fact, I had no idea everyone was so interested in me and Dusty! There I was worried about what my mother would think, but you all take the biscuit!" With that, Betsy let her plate fall with a clatter to the ground, spilling the rest of her supper into the dirt as she got up and ran across the clearing.

Dusty got up immediately to follow, but was held back by Mr. Callahan's firm grip on his forearm. However, he was in no mood to be thwarted this time, and rounded on Mr. Callahan like a terrier. "Leave me _alone_!" he said loudly, yanking his arm free, running after Betsy before Mr. Callahan could recover form his shock at being spoken to that way by Dusty, of all people.

####

"Betsy, _Betsy_!" Dusty wandered into the trees, following the direction she had gone in but unable to find her in the dark. He wondered if he could track her by her perfume, and stood for a minute sniffing the air, moving his head left and right, crouching down then straightening up, always sniffing.

A giggle from somewhere to his left finally alerted him to her whereabouts.

"I'm over here, Dusty," she said quietly. "Just please stop that awful sniffing!"

He went over and found her sitting on the ground leaning against a tree trunk. He sat down next to her and took her hand in his. "Did Lulu say something to make you mad?" he asked, lowering his voice in the darkness.

"No, not really. Mrs. Brookhaven said something about us kissing in their stagecoach."

"Oh she did, huh? Well, I'll bet we're the only ones who _have_ kissed in their stagecoach," Dusty muttered indignantly.

Betsy giggled again. "Dusty! That's a terrible thing to say."

Dusty fidgeted into a more comfortable position that allowed Betsy to lean against him instead of the tree. "I don't care what they say," he said defiantly. "I like bein' with you, Betsy. And you know I wouldn't do anything to put you in danger."

Betsy snuggled into his side, pulled his arm around her shoulders. Twigs cracked under them as they shifted still closer together. "Do you remember our first meeting?" she asked softly, her lips almost buried in his neck.

"Back in St. Louis, you mean?" Dusty asked, inhaling the clean scent of her hair.

"Yes. When I dropped my gloves," Betsy said shyly.

The gloves! She _did _remember! Dusty felt pure joy welling up in his chest. "And I picked 'em up, but then as I was running towards you, I fell over that darned dog and landed on 'em and got 'em all dirty? You mean that time?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I looked down and there was the cutest man I ever did see lying right there at my feet. And you didn't even seem to mind that you'd fallen down in front of everyone and people were laughing."

"They were? I didn't notice." Because there was only one thing he'd noticed, and that was her beautiful big smile as she reached down and took the gloves out of his outstretched hand.

Betsy raised her hand and gently stroked his cheek with the tips of her fingers. "I still have those gloves," she breathed into his ear, and then she pulled his face to hers and kissed him.

Dusty felt his toes curl straight away. And after his toes curled his spine tingled, and after that the back of his neck prickled as all the little hairs raised up, and after that he felt as though his mind was collapsing in on itself, and she kept kissing him and kissing him, with her arms tight around him, rubbing his shoulders and stroking his back and her fingers were winding through his hair, and after that...

"Oh my Gosh," he murmured suddenly, pushing himself away from her. "I think this is what Mr. Callahan was talking about."

"Dusty? What's wrong?" Betsy sat up straight, pushing the hair out of her face.

Dusty sat there in the shadows but somehow she knew there was a look of pure innocence on his face. "Oh, nothing."

She thought about that for a moment, then she burst into embarrassed giggles. "Oh, Dusty! I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay," he replied cheerfully.

"What do we do now?" she clamped both hands over her mouth, stifling her laughter.

"Um, we wait, I guess. Or _I _wait. You can go back to camp if you want."

"Oh, Dusty, I'm supposed to be _shocked_," Betsy said, trying not to look any further south than his neck. "Why aren't I shocked? Oh, you poor thing."

"Oh, it's no big deal," Dusty said, shrugging. "I'll just sit here and think about Mr. Callahan wearing women's clothing or something. That oughta do it."

Betsy got to her feet, still blushing furiously. "Dusty, what are we going to do with ourselves?" she asked plaintively. "If they find out about this, they'll _never_ leave us alone!"

# # # #

_Okay, so I ended it there...because I need a cold shower, ha ha_

_Stay tuned!_


	9. Naked Buffalo

_(Naked Buffalo- what Dusty called an ant on the lens of his telescope.) _

# # # #

"I'm sorry I yelled at you, Mr. Callahan."

Dusty had sloped back to camp looking very sheepish. Mr. Callahan knew better than to question where he'd been seeing as Betsy had returned a little earlier looking flustered and had tried to insert herself back into the group as though she'd never been away. Even Lulu had known better than to say anything for fear of causing any more trouble than she already had.

"That's all right, little pal," Mr. Callahan said gruffly. Supper was over and the big wagonmaster was reheating the coffee pot while Andy stacked the tin plates and cups ready for washing. The Brookhavens had retired to their stagecoach for an after supper nap, and Lulu and Betsy were still sitting on their log, talking quietly.

"No, Mr. Callahan, I mean it." Dusty shifted nervously, tugged at the chinstrap of his hat, trying to catch Betsy's eye but at the same time scared in case she looked up and saw him. "You're the one who's supposed to yell at me. Not the other way around."

"Dusty." Mr. Callahan straightened up. "Really, it's okay. I know why you did it. You were upset because Betsy was upset. I probably would have done the same in your position. Let's just forget it, okay?"

Dusty thought about it for a moment. "You would have?" He said finally. "You would have done the same? You would have yelled at yourself?"

"No, I would have yelled at you."

Dusty frowned. "Why would you have yelled at me? I didn't do anything."

"No, Dusty...I would have yelled at you if you had yelled...no, that's not right. I would have yelled at me, if you..." Mr. Callahan shook his head. He was already confused. "Dusty, why don't you go help Andy with the plates?"

Ever obliging, and even more so because he needed to make it up to Mr. Callahan for yelling at him, Dusty went off to help Andy wash up.

"Is everything okay now, Dusty?" Andy asked, up to his elbows in a bucket of warm sudsy water.

"Yeah. I think so," Dusty replied, picking up a worn dish towel to help with the drying.

"Mr. Callahan thinks we might get an extra day's camp tomorrow," Andy continued brightly, handing Dusty a wet plate. "Seeing as Betsy's been unwell and it'll likely be just as hot. He thinks it'll be a good idea to let her rest while we stock up on fresh water and just relax a little. I was thinking of maybe going fishing, if you'd care to join me?"

"Sure," Dusty shrugged. "Sounds like a good idea. I guess an extra day's camp wouldn't hurt." He chanced a look at Betsy again and was caught off guard by the fact that this time she was looking back at him. He fumbled the wet plate in his hands and dropped it into the dirt. "Darn," he muttered bending to retrieve it. "Sorry, Andy."

"It's okay, Dusty," Andy said sympathetically. "I'd probably be the same if I felt about her the way you do."

Dusty blinked as he handed over the dirty plate. He was shocked that Andy had brought the subject up so easily. "But you don't feel the same way about her as I do, right?" he said, unsure of the answer he might get.

"No," Andy smiled warmly, reassuringly. "I don't. Betsy's a dear friend, Dusty, but that's all she is. A friend."

Dusty didn't know why he felt so relieved to hear that.

# # # #

At around eight o'clock the next morning while Andy fried salted bacon for breakfast and Dusty, having fed and watered Freckles, brewed a fresh pot of coffee, Mr. Callahan officially announced that they would be camping for another day to give Betsy a chance to rest. Betsy protested, but the wagonmaster held his hand up and stopped her. "No, Betsy, that's very noble of you, but I've decided. Besides, the horses could also do with the rest," he grinned like a big, good-natured bear, "and so could I."

The Brookhavens were delighted at the prospect of lazing around for a whole day.

"Oh, Carter. This means we can have Elevenses at a proper table," said Mrs. Brookhaven.

"And an afternoon nap under a shady tree," sighed Mr. Brookhaven.

"And High Tea from a proper tea service!"

"And another afternoon nap under a shady tree!"

"And then it'll be time for bed," muttered Mr. Callahan out of the side of his mouth, making Andy and Lulu laugh.

Andy dished up biscuits and bacon. "Well, in that case, Dusty and I are going fishing. I believe there's salmon in that river, and I aim to try and catch me one."

"Are you sure?" said Dusty, pouring out the coffee. "Salmon? That means we can have fresh fish!"

"That'll make a change from this chewy old boot leather," said Lulu, picking at the bacon with her fingernails.

"We'll need to find some bait," said Andy, becoming more enthusiastic by the minute. "I'm sure we can find some grubs or worms or something. Even if we have to use bits of our own breakfast."

Lulu chewed and chewed, then pulled the masticated lump of dry bacon gristle out of her mouth. "Here. You can have this," she offered.

"Ah, no thanks, Lulu," Andy grinned.

While Andy and Lulu bantered about the taste and texture of their breakfast bacon and Mr. Callahan sat on the other log chatting to the Brookhavens, Dusty noticed Betsy get up and head towards the wagon. He drank his own coffee for a few moments, staring into space and wondering what to do. Then he hefted a sigh. Why shouldn't he go and talk to Betsy? She wasn't a leper taking to her sick bed.

He got up, stretched his arms and shoulders and rolled his head to ease the kinks in his neck. He walked breezily and confidently, (he hoped) past the others, daring anyone to say anything to stop him. But no-one did. After last night, he guessed they were probably too nervous in case he yelled at them.

He reached the back of the wagon. Betsy was inside, folding up her bed things and humming softly to herself, a tune he couldn't make out, although it sounded very nice.

"Hi Betsy," he said, startling her.

"Oh! Hello, Dusty," she smiled, putting her hand on her chest as though he'd given her a heart attack. "I didn't know you were there."

"I wasn't," he replied. "Well, I am now, but I wasn't. I mean, I wasn't when you thought I was. I mean, I just got here." He grinned goofily.

"Silly," Betsy laughed. "Well, as you can see, I was just making some room in here. Mr. Callahan may be giving us a day off, but I'm certainly not going to spend the whole day lying around in bed." She blushed suddenly, realising she'd just said the word 'bed' in front of Dusty, and indeed was holding her rolled up bed blanket in both arms.

"Me and Andy are going fishing," Dusty said, trying to ignore the fact that she'd just said the word 'bed' in front of him.

"I know, Dusty, I was there when you said it."

"Oh. Yeah, that's right. You were."

"For salmon, right?"

"That's what Andy says. I guess I don't know too much about fishin', same as I don't know too much about anything."

"You know how to make good coffee," Betsy smiled. "And you know how to look after Freckles."

_And you certainly know how to kiss me. _

"Okay, so I guess I know how to do two things."

"Three things," Betsy said shyly. "Only I didn't say the other one out loud."

"Make biscuits?" Dusty said, puzzled. "Tie a clove hitch? Oh, no...wait...I don't know how to tie a clove hitch."

"No, Dusty. Think."

Dusty shrugged, his eyes darting left to right as he thought hard. "Milk a cow?" He asked.

"Dusty! How would I know whether you knew how to milk a cow?" Betsy laughed.

"I don't know how to milk a cow," Dusty confessed. "I tried once but it went in my eye. Oh! I know what I can do. I can set traps."

"Yes, you can set traps, that's true. But that isn't what I was thinking about. I was thinking more about...well, you know." Betsy couldn't even bring herself to say it out loud. She hoped he'd see the way she was looking at him and get the message. Finally, when he looked just as puzzled as ever, she invited him inside.

Still trying to think of what the third thing was that she thought he could do, Dusty clambered into the wagon, careful not to step on any of the girls' possessions. There were items of Lulu's everywhere. If he stepped on her silver hand mirror, he knew there would be big trouble. "Did you want me to help you with anything?" he asked, wondering why the girls needed so many trinkets. Surely it just meant more items to lose?

"Haven't you guessed what the third thing is?" Betsy said, hoping she wasn't going to have to spell it out.

"Play checkers?"

"Dusty, you're not very good at checkers."

"Flip a coin so it lands heads up?" Dusty gave a resigned shrug. "I don't know, Betsy, I've gone through all the things I don't know how to do. I give up."

Betsy put the blanket down and crossed the already very small gap between them until there was no gap between them at all. "Can you guess now?" She whispered, lifting her hands to his chest, pressing her fingertips into the fabric of his shirt.

"Um..." Dusty blinked, his mind going vague as her face drew closer to his and he felt her warm breath on his neck. "Um...I know...I can do a turkey impression."

Betsy laughed softly. "I've seen it. It's very impressive. But don't do it now. Well, Dusty, if you really can't guess, then I'll just have to remind you." She pulled his head towards hers, looping her arms around his neck and drawing him into a warm, gentle kiss.

Dusty was in heaven. He knew his need for Betsy's company was no longer entirely innocent and he knew he'd only followed her to the wagon for just this very reason, in the hopes that he might be able to steal a kiss. He put his arms gently around her waist and held her close but not too close, careful not to compromise her dignity or act in any way in an ungentlemanly fashion.

"There," Betsy breathed after their lips finally parted. "Can you guess now?"

Dusty gazed into her beautiful eyes, marvelling at the length of her eyelashes. "Count backwards from fifty?" he asked.

"Now, Dusty, you really are being silly," she scolded.

"You're right," he grinned lazily. "I can't even count backwards from ten."

# # # #

Later that morning, Andy stood in the clearing showing off the fishing rod he kept stowed under the wagon but for some reason hadn't had the chance to use yet. Mr. Callahan was admiring it, and the two men were having a conversation about fishing and the best ways to catch particular types of fish. It didn't sound to Dusty as though either of them were experts, but it was still more than he knew, so he took their word for it that everything they said held a modicum of truth.

Lulu, however, was sceptical. "They all have their stories about 'the one that got away'," she drawled, hovering on the outskirts of the conversation. "Most of the time it got away cause they were too lazy or too drunk to care."

"Are you into fishin', Lulu?" asked Dusty, impressed at the showgirl's knowledge.

"I wasn't talkin' about fishin'," she retorted, and drifted off to find something else to do.

"Dusty, I know I said we'd go fishing together," Andy said, a huge smile lighting up his sunny features, "but I'm so anxious to get started I thought I'd take some of this bacon down to the river right now and get a line cast while it's still early. Would you do me a favour and find me some live bait if you could? Some grubs or worms or anything? I know you like exploring the surroundings every time we make camp, I just thought maybe you'd be good at finding me some bait. Then you can come down and join me and try to catch yourself a fish."

Dusty thought about this, then shrugged and grinned widely. "Sure, Andy. I'll bet I can find you the biggest, fattest grubs you ever saw in your whole life. I'll bring you some bugs the size of your head. I'll find you the creepiest crawlies, the squishiest beetles, the longest, ugliest worms. I'll..."

"Dusty, will you quit it?" groaned Lulu. "As if it ain't bad enough I got all that undigested bacon in me. You want me to bring it all back up?"

"Sorry Lulu. Hey, you want to help me?"

"Ugh, no thanks," Lulu retorted. "Do I look like a girl who goes around picking up creepy crawlies? Although, thinkin' about it..." She laughed heartily. "I guess I have known worse insects in my time."

Andy gathered his fishing equipment plus a large pail for anything he might catch, and set off towards the river, whistling a happy tune and promising everyone fresh salmon for supper.

Mr. Callahan watched the young man go, marvelling at Andy's relentless enthusiasm. "Well, little pal, I don't know about you, but I'm getting' hungry already," the big man grinned, turning to Dusty. "Fresh cooked salmon. Mmmm-_mmm._"

"Don't you worry, Mr. Callahan," Dusty said happily. "I'll find Andy some of the best live bait, and then we'll all have three salmon each!"

# # # #

"Where are you going, Dusty?" asked Betsy, putting down her sewing when she saw her friend setting off for the surrounding trees with a bucket and a shovel.

"I'm going to find Andy some live bait," Dusty told her. "For fishing. Want to come?"

"Live bait?" Betsy pulled a face. "You mean, like worms and things?"

"Yeah. Guess that means no, huh? Darn. Lulu didn't want to come either. Guess it's just not a girl thing."

"Wait, Dusty," Betsy said, getting up from the trunk she was sitting on. "I'm not scared of worms. I'll come with you." _Any chance to spend a bit of time with you,_ she thought. _Even though the thought of wiggly worms is quite disgusting._

"Gee, thanks, Betsy," Dusty beamed. "Guess that makes you braver than Lulu." He waited for her to catch up with him, then they both set off for the trees. "I won't make you pick up any worms, don't worry," he told her. "You can find a rock or something to sit on and watch. I know girls don't like bugs. One time Augusta Mayhew tried to push me in a mud puddle so I put this big, black beetle about this long, down the back of her dress. Boy, she screamed the whole neighborhood down."

"I must say, Dusty, I really don't like the sound of those girls you used to hang around with," said Betsy. "They sound worse than boys!"

"Oh, they were, Betsy, they were. They were rough like boys but they screamed and yelled like girls. I hated 'em. They weren't soft and sweet and gentle, like I bet you were when you were little."

"Oh, Dusty," Betsy smiled, blushing shyly. "My mother would have had something to say if I went around behaving like a boy! I had to behave myself impeccably at all times!"

"Augusta Mayhew's mother had six other kids to take care of," Dusty said, swinging his bucket and kicking over stones in the hopes he might find some grubs. "Augusta was always out in the street."

"I would never let any of my children behave in that way," Betsy declared. "I mean, if I ever do have children. That is, I'd like to have children, of course! Some day. When I'm married. If I ever do get married."

"I'm sure you will get married, Betsy," Dusty said, scuffing his boot in the dirt. "What guy wouldn't want to be married to you? And I know you'd make a good mom. I can tell."

"Why, Dusty! What a lovely thing to say," Betsy felt her face light up at his words. "Do you really think I'd make a good mom?"

"Of course I do," Dusty replied. "You love kids."

"Oh, Dusty, I dream about it," Betsy said happily. "I dream of a lovely little house with a white picket fence and a little boy and girl setting off for school in the mornings with their packed lunches and bookbags and maybe a little swing seat on the porch where I can sit and drink lemonade and wait for them to come home. And my husband will be a handsome, hard working man who..." she stopped suddenly, realising that this was a long-held fantasy of hers that he didn't need to hear. "I'm sorry, Dusty. It's just a dream I've had for a long time. It doesn't mean I wouldn't..."_ What? Settle for less? _She couldn't say that to him. Besides, who said she'd be settling for less? Dusty wasn't less. And what was she thinking about marrying Dusty for? He hadn't even asked her, and he probably had no intentions of asking her!

_Oh, Betsy, get those thoughts out of your head. If a man thinks you've got marriage on your mind, he'll run a mile in the opposite direction!_

"I'm sorry, Dusty," she said quietly. "I'm babbling."

"No you're not," Dusty reassured her. "You always make sense, Betsy. In fact, you talk the most sense out of anyone, except for maybe Mr. Callahan. I always listen to you."

"Oh, Dusty, you're so very sweet," she said, feeling a sudden urge to hold his hand and wishing he wasn't holding so tightly to that stupid bucket.

Dusty forged ahead, the bucket swinging back and forth. "I'm gonna start digging around here," he decided. "I think this is where I'll find a lot of worms. You might want to find someplace to sit down, Betsy. How about that flat stone over there."

"All right, Dusty, good luck," she smiled, gathering up her skirts and sitting down on the stone he'd indicated.

Dusty set the bucket down and took hold of the shovel in both hands. He raised it above his head and brought it down to the ground with a hard whack, digging it at least three inches into the dirt. He put his boot on it and pushed it in even further, loosening the soil and tearing up a huge clod. Underneath, in the resulting hole, lots of creepy crawlies scurried for cover. Dusty bent and extracted some long worms and a couple of beetles while Betsy squealed, even though she'd promised herself she wouldn't.

"Oh, Dusty, just the worms, not those other horrible things," she begged. "Worms won't escape, but those things have legs!"

"I guess you're right. Just worms," Dusty nodded in agreement. "They'll stick easier on the hooks, anyway."

Betsy pulled a face. Bugs and worms and fishing hooks weren't her thing at all.

Dusty pulled worm after worm out of the ground. He moved around with his shovel, pulling up chunks of the surrounding earth, finding more and more worms. Andy was going to be delighted.

After a little while, he felt something bite the back of his calf, just above the top of his boot. He swatted absently at his leg, scratching at it with the tip of his other boot. After another moment he felt another tiny nip. Then he saw a huge worm and got distracted by it, pulling it out of the ground and setting to work digging another hole.

Betsy was looking around at the trees, trying to stifle a most unladylike yawn. She enjoyed being with Dusty, but not when he was as preoccupied as this. If he'd been sitting on the stone with her and kissing her it might have been different, but as it was, he was so busy digging up worms like some eleven year old kid that he'd stopped talking to her altogether. She considered telling him that she was going back to camp to continue with her sewing. She looked over to where he was. He was rubbing one boot against the back of his other leg.

"Dusty, are you all..." Betsy gasped, leaping to her feet. "Dusty! _Dusty, you're covered in ants_!"

"What?" Dusty seemed to snap back from some distant place and looked down at himself. His eyes widened as he realised that his legs were swarming with red and black ants and there were even some crawling their way up his shirt. He let out an ear piercing yell and began tearing at his clothes. His hat went flying as he hauled his shirt over his head, pulled his gun belt off, kicked off his boots and began removing his chaps and jeans, shouting and yelling the whole time, brushing at his legs, shaking the ants off his arms, shaking them out of his hair and hopping up and down on one foot as he got rid of all his ant covered clothes.

Betsy didn't know where to look. Dusty was shedding his clothes at an alarming rate. "The river!" she cried. "Dusty, get down to the river, get in the water!"

"Okay," he agreed, desperately tugging at his longjohns.

"_Now_, Dusty! _Get_!"

Dusty needed no further encouragement. He turned tail and bolted back through the trees, still yelling, now feeling the itchy, stinging nip and stab of ant bites all over his body. By the time he reached camp his longjohns were half off. Mr. Brookhaven had to put his hands firmly over his wife's eyes so that she couldn't see the ghastly spectacle that was unfolding in front of them.

"Dusty! What the...?" Mr. Callahan exclaimed. When he saw the ants swarming all over his little pal he gasped in horror.

"Mr. Callahan, I need to get down to the river!" Dusty howled, hopping on one ant bitten leg, tugging his longjohns clean off and sprinting away stark naked in the direction of the cool, soothing water, scratching wildly at his torso as he went.

"Well!" declared Lulu. "I've seen some sights in my time."

"My poor little pal," Mr. Callahan winced. "That's _got _to be hurting."

# # # #

Andy stood alone on the river bank, glad of some peace and tranquillity at last. He was sure there were salmon in there, but it was important that the fish remain undisturbed. It was such a beautiful morning, warm and calm and perfect for a nice, gentle bit of relaxing fishing. He pictured the looks on everyone's faces when he came back to camp with a pail full of shiny, fat salmon.

Such wonderful peace. Such lovely tranquillity.

The lovely tranquillity was promptly shattered by an almighty banshee-like howling as a naked figure hurtled down the bank and streaked past him straight into the river with great ungainly strides, splashing water everywhere and soaking him from head to foot. He let out an exasperated moan of displeasure. Dusty. Who else would it be? No-one else on earth would have done what Dusty just did. And for what reason? For what possible reason had Dusty just raced naked and screaming down the bank and into the river, only to disturb all the fish so that Andy would never catch anything now?

"Ants!" yelled Dusty without being asked. "I'm covered in millions of ants!"

"Oh, my God, Dusty! Are you all right?" Andy felt immediately ashamed of himself for thinking that Dusty had been fooling around.

"They're biting me!" Dusty howled. "_Everywhere_!"

"Oh, Dusty! Just don't scratch, promise me you won't scratch! I've got formula for ant bites in my medicine chest. Just don't scratch, you'll break the skin. I've got stuff that will stop the itching."

Poor Dusty looked so desperate for relief that Andy dropped his fishing rod without a second thought and ran back towards camp to get his medicine and a towel and some fresh clothes for Dusty.

Dusty rubbed and rubbed to get the drowning ants off his body. He sluiced water through his hair- he wasn't a confident enough swimmer to submerge his head completely. At least they'd stopped biting once he was in the water, but now there were red spots appearing all over his thighs and stomach. _Don't scratch_, he told himself. _Don't scratch!_

When Andy returned, Mr. Callahan and Betsy were with him.

"No, Betsy!" Dusty moaned. He didn't want Betsy of all people, to see him covered in ant bites.

"Oh, Dusty, I just wanted to make sure you were all right!" Betsy cried. "I was so worried about you! Oh, Dusty, how awful!"

Andy was holding up a bottle of some kind of greenish liquid. "This will stop the itching," he called. "It negates the effects of formic acid, which is what ant bites are made out of."

"I guess you could say it's an _ant_-idote," Mr. Callahan chuckled, composing himself when nobody else laughed and instead all looked at him sternly.

"I'm not coming out of the river naked in front of Betsy," Dusty said mournfully.

"Betsy, dear, perhaps you should go back to camp," Mr. Callahan grinned, though not unkindly. "After all, a man's dignity is at stake here. Not that Dusty has much of _that_ left after what's already happened."

# # # #

That afternoon, while the Brookhavens snoozed and Mr. Callahan and Andy were back at the river fishing and Lulu was sitting under a tree sorting out her make up bags and jewelry collection, Betsy sat beside Dusty who was lying in the back of the wagon in his undershirt with a blanket wrapped loosely around him, his body coated in foul smelling ant potion.

"You didn't have to sit with me, Betsy," he said in a small, pathetic voice. "Not the way I smell. It's worse than the time I got sprayed by a skunk!"

"It's not that bad, Dusty," she smiled. "Besides, it stopped the itching. That means the bites will heal without getting infected."

"I guess so," Dusty conceded. "Boy, do I feel like an idiot. Everyone saw me naked."

"I didn't." Betsy blushed.

"You're lucky," Dusty said ruefully.

"Your clothes have all been washed," Betsy said brightly. "We got all the ants out. Even your hat and boots are ant free."

"Thanks, Betsy. You're the best."

Betsy treated him to a dazzling smile. "You _know_ I'd do anything for you, Dusty."

Dusty pulled the blanket a little closer around his shoulders. If he didn't look at the ant bites, he could pretend they weren't even there. The worst ones were on his legs, but Andy had said even those would be gone within days if he kept applying the green potion. "It's nice in the wagon," he said. "Beats sleeping outside on the ground."

"It's such a shame you always have to sleep outside," Betsy said, offering him a drink of water.

"I gotta sleep outside," he shrugged. "I'm a man."

Their eyes met. Betsy leaned down and kissed him softly.

Dusty snaked one arm out of the blanket and ran his fingers slowly through her hair.

Betsy sighed. "You still haven't guessed the third thing you were good at," she smiled, stroking his face.

Dusty thought hard again, screwing up his face in concentration. Finally he looked as though he had the answer.

"Gee, Betsy. Was it getting bitten by ants?" he grinned.

# # # #


	10. Ice Cream Sundae Blues

_Welcome back, tiny, select audience of fabulous Dusty's Trail readers! Here goes with another plot-what-plot chapter about the meandering BUSTY relationship. _

_Will they, won't they? Oh just get on and do it! _

# # # #

"You two lovebirds behavin' yourselves in there?" came Lulu's voice from outside the wagon.

Betsy blushed and took her hand away from Dusty's forehead. She had been stroking his hair while he dozed. "Yes, Lulu, we're behaving ourselves."

The showgirl hauled herself up into the wagon, rocking it slightly and bringing Dusty out of a light snooze. He blinked sleepily and tried to sit up, then remembered he was in the back of the wagon and fell back onto the pillows and cushions with a contented sigh.

"We-ell, look at you, all wrapped up like a bug in a rug," Lulu grinned, eyeing his supine form covered in blankets from neck to toe. "All right for some, huh?"

"I could tell you where the ant nest is if you want a day off for yourself," Dusty retorted, wriggling his shoulders into the pillows to get even more comfortable.

Lulu gathered her skirts and sat down on a small wooden stool next to Betsy. She rested her elbows on her knees and leaned forward to tug gently at the blanket. "So, Dusty. Tell me where you got bit," she chuckled.

Dusty, his eyes shut, frowned and pursed his lips. "You all know where I got bit," he said. "Everywhere."

"_Every_where?" Lulu said saucily.

"Everywhere," Dusty confirmed. "Even on my ear."

"You bin rubbin' in that potion?"

"Yes, Lulu."

"_Every_where?"

"Yes, Lulu."

Lulu laughed softly and tugged the blanket again. "If you need any help gettin' into those hard-to-reach places, just give ol' Lulu a shout, huh?"

"Lulu!" exclaimed Betsy, fidgeting with mortified embarrassment.

Dusty pulled a hand out from underneath the blanket and smacked Lulu's wrist. He was grinning, although his eyes were still closed. "Ain't no place I can't reach, Lulu," he said mildly.

"Sure now? Cause there might be some you missed."

"Nope. I got 'em all. Plus, Betsy helped me."

"She did?" Lulu turned to Betsy and eyed the prim schoolteacher up and down. "Little Miss Shy ain't quite so shy these days it seems."

"Lulu, please!" said Betsy, her face burning. "Poor Dusty's been though a terrible time. You shouldn't joke about it. I helped put the potion on his back and shoulders, not anywhere else, if you must know."

"And my legs, Betsy," said Dusty, helpfully.

"Just the lower half," Betsy added quickly.

"Just the lower half, huh." Lulu looked at Dusty, who seemed quite happy reclining on his cushions being fussed over. "Well, it looks to me like he's havin' about as terrible a time as the King of Arabia. I bet you'd be feedin' him grapes one by one, if we had any."

"Hey, that would be neat," Dusty agreed, opening his eyes to look sidelong at Betsy. "Would you feed me grapes if we had any, Betsy?"

Betsy straightened her shoulders and asserted herself. "I don't think you're quite_ that_ helpless, Dusty."

"Still. It'd be neat, bein' fed grapes."

Lulu laughed throatily and nudged Betsy. "See. He ain't so dumb."

"Maybe you could cut up an apple into small pieces and feed me those," said Dusty, hopefully.

"Would you listen to His Royal Highness," Lulu grinned. "Dusty, you sure you ain't a Brookhaven?" She leaned back on her stool and reached for her silver hand mirror, primping her towering blonde curls. "Anyway, I came in here to tell you that Cal and Andy caught some kinda fish in that river. They might be arguin' over whether it's salmon or not, but at least we got somethin' for supper now besides beans and boot leather."

"I sure wish I'd been down there helpin' 'em," said Dusty sadly. "We'd-a had twice as many fish by now with three of us instead of two."

"Dusty, no offence, but I reckon the only thing you'd catch is yourself by the seat of your own pants," Lulu teased.

Mr. Callahan's deep voice and Andy's cheerful one could now be heard coming back to camp. Lulu primped her curls one more time and got up to leave the wagon. "Hey, Dusty- should I tell Cal you volunteered to clean the fish?"

"Ugh, Lulu," said Betsy, squirming at the thought of scales and fish guts.

"You can tell him I volunteered to _eat_ the fish," Dusty said, folding his hands behind his head and deliberately settling even further into the pillows.

Lulu left the wagon, still laughing to herself and muttering something about The Sheik of Araby. When she was gone, Betsy looked at Dusty and shook her head, smiling at his expression of relaxed contentment.

"If Mr. Callahan sees you looking so pleased with yourself, he'll set you back to work before sundown," she told him. "You'll be out there greasing axles before you know it."

"Mr. Callahan wouldn't do that to me," Dusty asserted. "Not in my condition."

Betsy smiled, leaned closer to him. "You don't look in too bad a condition to me," she said gently.

"Ow," Dusty grimaced. "I'm in agony."

"You will be, if Mr. Callahan thinks you're pretending," Betsy said, reaching out to brush his hair back as she'd been doing before Lulu appeared.

"That's nice, Betsy," he murmured, closing his eyes again. "Sure, the ant bites hurt, but you bein' here makes me feel a whole lot better."

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," she confessed.

Dusty revelled in the feel of Betsy's gentle, soothing touch against his brow. "What about swingin' on the porch of your little house with the white picket fence?"

_Trust him to remember that._

"Right now? I still think I'd rather be here."

"I wouldn't," Dusty said, pulling a face. "You know where I'd rather be? I'd rather be sittin' at a soda fountain eatin' the biggest banana split ice cream sundae you ever saw, with two bananas and four scoops of vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce all over." He licked his lips and made satisfied murmurs of pleasure as he imagined devouring this sweet sticky treat.

"And what about me, Dusty?"

"You said you'd rather be here."

"Wouldn't you want me with you at the soda fountain?"

"You can't be in two places at once."

"Okay then, I wouldn't want to be here if you weren't here. I'd rather be sitting at the soda fountain with you."

"You would?" Dusty looked genuinely excited. "Wow. I don't have enough money for two sundaes, but I'd share mine with you any day, Betsy." He smiled happily at the thought.

"I'd like some raspberry sauce on my half," Betsy sighed. "Plus a sweet red cherry."

"And if we kissed after, you'd taste of chocolate and raspberry and vanilla and banana and cherry," Dusty said, looking like he'd just discovered a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

"And so would you," Betsy replied, feeling a small thrill ripple through her from head to toe.

"And I wouldn't smell of ant potion."

Betsy leaned closer. "I don't even notice it any more."

Their lips touched.

"Mmm, raspberry," murmured Dusty.

They kissed slowly.

After a few moments, Dusty slipped his arm around Betsy's shoulders and gently pulled her off her small wooden chair and onto the blanket.

"Dusty..." she protested feebly, before giving in and resuming the kiss, this time lying next to him, with him beneath the blanket and her on top of it.

The sounds from outside, Cal and Lulu and Andy and the clatter of pans and buckets and the creaking of the wagon and the horses whinnying on the outskirts of the clearing, they all seemed to recede into the distance, becoming swirled and muted and far away, as though underwater. Time drew in on itself and sat huddled and waiting in the warm afternoon as Dusty and Betsy kissed, Dusty's arm around her shoulders and his other hand in her thick, dark hair, while Betsy's hand rested safely on his chest and the fingers of her other hand clutched tightly to a corner of his pillow.

"Mmm. Vanilla," Dusty said softly. "Chocolate...and cherry..."

Betsy caught a faint whiff of something and wrinkled her nose, her lips breaking free of Dusty's. "Fish," she said.

"Vanilla, chocolate, cherry and _fish_?" said Dusty, aghast.

Betsy's mouth drew downwards at the same time as her eyebrows puckered. "I can smell fish," she said in disgust.

Dusty sniffed the air. "Oh yeah, so can I. Andy must be cleaning our supper." His eyes brightened. "Which is good, because I'm starved."

"It's foul," Betsy muttered. "The wind must be blowing it this way."

"It ain't as bad as the ant potion," said Dusty, trying to kiss her again.

"Dusty, it's dreadful!"

"Betsy? Can't we go back to tastin' vanilla and chocolate and cherries?" he pleaded.

He looked so mournful then that Betsy forgot all about the fish smell and kissed him again. This time he wrapped both arms around her and held her even closer, and the hand that she had placed on his chest moved up to his neck and flattened itself against the heat of his skin. She felt the hard beat of his pulse against her palm. _What on earth would her mother say if she saw this kind of behaviour_?

Out here though, wherever they were, halfway between East and West and Heaven and Hell for all she knew, the rules were different. Okay, maybe not all the rules, but a lot of them. The ones that told her she had to be a good girl, always- they had definitely altered. Why, she and Dusty were altering them right now. How else could she explain the sudden urge to crawl under the blanket and feel his hands all over her?

It was then that Betsy heard her mother's voice as loud and clear as a bell inside her head. _Elizabeth! What do you think you're doing! Get away from that filthy boy- right this minute!_

Shocked into obeying, even though the voice was inside of her own head, Betsy pushed herself off Dusty's chest and hauled herself into a sitting position, pushing her wayward hair out of her face and straightening her blouse and skirts. Her face burned and her lungs squeezed out torn scraps of air. "W-what _am_ I doing?" she murmured, then realised she'd said it out loud.

Dusty's eyes grew wide. He too pushed himself up off the pillows. "Oh, my Gosh, I'm sorry Betsy, I don't know what made me do that, it's just...I was just...you know..." he trailed off, mumbling about banana splits and chocolate sauce and then stopped talking altogether. He stared at her as if she'd slapped him.

"Oh, Dusty, what are we going to do?" she said, desperately.

"I don't know," he replied, looking panicked. "Nobody ever asks _me_ that!" He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "I know- let's run away together!"

"What?" Betsy looked startled, then nonplussed. "Dusty, I was being serious!"

"So was I!" came the indignant answer.

"'Let's run away'?" Betsy sighed. "First of all, we're already running away, the whole wagon train heading west is like running away. And second, we're already lost, so where would we run to if we don't even know where we are now? And third, Dusty, what would you and I do if we did run away?"

"I don't know- you asked!" Dusty felt silly now, sitting there in his undershirt in the middle of the afternoon and only covered by a blanket. "We could, I don't know, join an Indian tribe. They'd never find us there."

"Dusty, I don't want to run away, get even _more_ lost or join an Indian tribe! I was only thinking about how we're supposed to...you know, control our feelings for each other."

"Oh. That," said Dusty, falling back onto the pillows.

"Yes, _that_."

Dusty stared up at the curved wagon hoops and the grubby tarpaulin stretched over them. His ant bites started itching. "Betsy, can you hand me my ant potion?" he asked plaintively.

# # # #

Betsy sat outside with her chin in her hand. Dusty hadn't answered any of her questions and had eventually shooed her outside so that he could apply the foul smelling ant potion._ No, he didn't need any help, thank you. _He'd looked fed up and frustrated. Once again a beautiful kiss had turned into an awkward situation. But how could it have turned out any other way? Betsy had been sprawled out on the blanket with him, acting like a wanton hussy, even if she hadn't meant to be. Then she'd just as quickly turned off the heat. _The heat that had been threatening to engulf them both. _

She sighed, recalling the feel of his lips on hers. She was beginning to want it all the time, that gentle caress, the way he had of making the whole world disappear while he kissed her. And the chaste way in which he held her- he had never once let his hands stray near any part of her that was inappropriate for him to touch.

Unfortunately, it was that very chasteness that just seemed to make the fires burn hotter.

A thumping, banging noise from inside the wagon made her look round. "Dusty? What are you doing in there?" she called.

"I'm gettin' dressed," came a mumbled retort. "I ain't lazin' around all day no more."

Betsy got up and went to the back of the wagon, standing near the tailgate without looking in. "But Dusty, you're not meant to be up and about just yet. Andy said you needed to keep those bites clean and not let them get infected, at least until they've gone down!"

"Everyone thinks I'm lazy," Dusty muttered.

"No-one thinks you're lazy, little pal," said Mr. Callahan, surprising both Betsy and Dusty who didn't even know the big wagonmaster was in the vicinity. "You break those bites you'll be in bigger trouble than y'already are. Now get back in that bed."

Betsy and Mr. Callahan both heard Dusty's huge, dramatic sigh.

"Yes, Mr. Callahan."

Mr. Callahan patted Betsy's arm and winked. "There," he whispered. "He's had his little protest, now he'll rest easy."

When Dusty was once more down to his underclothes and back under the blankets, Betsy again joined him in the wagon.

"Don't laugh at me," he pouted when he saw her smiling.

"I'm not laughing at you, Dusty," Betsy smiled even more widely. "I was just thinking what a terrible patient you are. Maybe we should get Lulu back- you were fine when she was here."

"I wasn't kissin' _Lulu_," he said, still pouting.

Betsy looked at her hands, realising they were clasped primly in her lap. She twisted her thumbs together. "I heard my mother's voice," she said, looking everywhere but at his perplexed face. "Telling me to stop."

"Your _mother_? When did your mother get here?" Dusty asked incredulously. "And _how_ did she get here? And where is she now? Is she with Mr. and Mrs. Brookhaven?"

"My mother isn't here, Dusty, that's the silliness of it. I just thought I heard her voice saying what I knew she would say if she saw me kissing a man the way I was...the way you were...the way _we_ were kissing."

"Oh." Dusty frowned. "I guess she wasn't too happy, huh."

"Oh, Dusty, my mother would have a fit if she saw how I was behaving. She wouldn't even approve of holding hands unless both our sets of parents had all been formally introduced and we'd been on half a dozen chaperoned dates first."

Dusty pushed himself back into the pillows. "Really?"

Betsy nodded. "I guess you didn't have quite a strict upbringing, did you?"

"Not that strict," he shook his head in sympathy.

"Oh, Dusty, I feel so confused. I like you a lot, but I know how much my mother and daddy would be disappointed in me right now."

"Why would they be disappointed?" Dusty asked. "What have you done wrong? You're not a horse rustler or a bank robber or an escaped prisoner or a jewel thief or a low down, dirty, rotten varmint. You're not any of those things. You're the kindest, nicest person I know, and you're a schoolteacher and you're heading out West to teach all the poor kids how to read and write. They should be more proud of you than anything. And if I ever meet them, that's what I'll say." he squared his shoulders assertively. "But maybe not the bit about the low down, dirty, rotten varmint."

"Why, Dusty, that's so sweet of you," Betsy said, her eyes moistening with tears. "I don't know why I worry so- I just want to do everything right."

He longed to put his arms around her. "Betsy, if the way I feel about you ain't right, then I don't know what is."

"Oh, me too, Dusty. Me too." With that, Betsy got off the chair and lay down on top of the blanket again, burying her face in his chest and letting him put his arms around her.

They lay like that for ages, Betsy held gently in Dusty's arms while he breathed rhythmically and comfortingly beneath her and the acrid smell of ant potion burned into her memory. Betsy had never felt this way about any man before. No-one made her heart flip quite the way Dusty did. He didn't even have to do anything- he just had to show up wearing that battered old hat with his hair and the sun in his eyes and if he fell over something, why that just made her heart flip twice. His gentle, happy nature and his forgiving attitude and his acceptance of his own limitations just made him stand taller in her eyes until she saw him as a giant. Nothing and no-one that made her feel this safe, this secure and this wanted, could ever possibly be wrong._ This isn't wrong, mother. It isn't. So hold your tongue because I'm a grown woman now and I can make my own decisions_.

After a little while, Dusty spoke. His voice broke through her silent reverie and reverberated through his chest making Betsy's cheek vibrate and all the hairs on the back of her neck stand up in a good way. "Betsy..." he began, slightly breathlessly.

"Yes, Dusty?" Betsy sighed, equally breathlessly, wondering what beautiful words would come out of his mouth and soothe her troubled mind.

"Do you think Andy's done guttin' those fish? Because I don't mind tellin' you- I'm _starved_!"

# # # #


	11. Lionesses and Tigers and Tea Sets, Oh My

_A/N. After much deliberating over this story and wondering whether it was actually going anywhere, I decided to press ahead with this latest chapter. It's still meandering, still about as lost as Dusty's wagon train itself. But I'm still enjoying it, and I'll probably carry on with it until it reaches some kind of conclusion by itself. Thanks for still reading it anyway, and thanks, Courtney, for all the valuable advice over the last couple of days._

_# # # #_

After the initial day and a half of discomfort the ant potion set to work, rapidly reducing the swelling of Dusty's ant bites and taking away the itch altogether. By day three, all he had left were a handful of small red pinprick marks on his legs and just a couple more on his lower back. Finally, Andy took him to one side, gave him a check up and decided he was fully fit for work. With that, Mr. Callahan promptly called the young scout over to grease up the suspension on the stagecoach and help make running repairs to all the wheels, yokes and harnesses. In fact there was so much work lined up for Dusty that he mentioned gloomily to Andy that he was considering going right back into the woods to lie on the ants' nest again.

"Now you know you don't want to do that, Dusty," Andy grinned, greatly amused by the comically sullen look on Dusty's face. "Besides, I don't think the rest of us could handle another vision of you running around with no clothes on so soon after the last. I don't think Mrs. Brookhaven will ever fully recover from the sight of you whipping off your longjohns."

Dusty pulled a face, straightened his gun belt and adjusted his hat. "Thanks for reminding me, Andy. Well, guess I'd better get to work, then." He bent to retrieve the toolbox, lifting it by one side so that all the tools clattered out onto the ground, except for the hammer which landed on Andy's foot.

Andy shouted out loud and hopped around, shaking his leg as his toes throbbed. "Dusty, why did you have to do that?" he asked, trying to stay calm. "Why didn't you pick it up by the handle?"

Dusty winced at Andy's pain, then shrugged as though the idea hadn't really occurred to him. "I didn't know it was going to be so heavy," he said. As he bent and picked up the spilled tools, the ones he had already put back in the box started falling out, but this time Andy was quick enough to get out of the way.

"Dusty," Andy sighed, "put the toolbox down."

"Oh, yeah," Dusty grinned. "Good idea."

From across the clearing, Lulu was shaking her head at the scene unfolding in front of them. "Poor Andy," she said sadly.

"Poor Dusty," Betsy said, equally sadly.

Lulu gave her friend a look of mild incredulity. "Poor _Dusty_? Didn't I tell you, honey, Dusty has nine lives. It's everyone else who suffers!"

"Oh, but he doesn't mean it, Lulu," Betsy said, her voice all soft and breathy as she watched Andy continue to hop out of the way of falling screwdrivers and wrenches. "He tries so hard to do his best."

Lulu's eyes grew round and she grinned as she stared fully at Betsy. "You sure do have it bad, dont'cha?"

"Have what bad?" Betsy said, looking at her showgirl friend, a faint smile on her lips.

Lulu shook her head again. "'_Love's young dream_'," she quoted.

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Betsy, but she blushed.

"It means, you two are so gosh-darned _sweet_ on each other I'm in danger of overloadin' on the sugar," Lulu replied with a wink. She turned back to watch Dusty, who was being unceremoniously moved to one side by Mr. Callahan so that the big wagonmaster and Andy could pick up all the tools and finally get them back in the box. "Although how any girl could ever survive a lifetime with that walking disaster is a mystery to me."

"Oh, Lulu, he's not _that _bad!" said Betsy. "He's kind, and caring, and he dotes on the horses, and all he ever does is try to help. Besides..." her eyes went all soft and liquid and her head tipped gently to one side, "...he's lovely."

"Oh, Betsy," Lulu laughed. "Ain't nothin' I can say to you while you're like this. Just be careful, that's all. 'Lovely' don't always cut the mustard, know what I'm sayin'? You got other things to consider."

Betsy smiled, watching the way Dusty pulled himself upright and straightened his shoulders, acting like the toolbox incident had never happened. "Dusty does just fine by me," she sighed.

# # # #

Mr. Callahan couldn't believe the mess Dusty was getting himself into. The young scout was lying on his back half way under the stagecoach, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There was axle grease everywhere- on his face, his neck, in his hair and right the way up his forearms. It had been a while since the stagecoach's suspension had been lubricated properly and Dusty was making sure he didn't miss a single spring, nut, bolt or screw. "Dusty, you better leave some of that grease for the rest of us," the wagonmaster said gruffly, kneeling on the ground to get a better look at what his friend was doing.

"The sun's kinda made it go all gooey," Dusty said, wiping his face with his oily sleeve. "It's hard to get it where it needs to go."

"Looks like we may have to upturn _you_ over a barrel when you're finished, catch some o' that oil running off," Mr. Callahan sighed as another wasted blob of precious grease ran down Dusty's cheek while he shifted around to get at the insides of the suspension coils.

"At least I'll be well-oiled, huh, Mr. Callahan?" Dusty said, grinning at his own joke, then banging his head on the underside of the stagecoach, luckily softening the blow with his hat.

"Dusty, just..." Mr. Callahan rolled his eyes skyward. "...finish what you're doing, huh, little pal? He patted one of Dusty's legs. "We need to get ourselves back on the trail sometime _today_."

After Dusty had finally finished greasing up the stagecoach he wandered back across the clearing to clean up. As he got near to the wagon, Betsy appeared down the steps with a handful of old rags and a bottle of Andy's grease busting formula, patent pending. When she saw the state of her oily friend she burst out laughing.

"Here, Dusty. I thought you might like some help," she smiled, once her laughter had subsided.

"Thanks Betsy," Dusty grinned. "I don't know how I got so dirty with such a tiny tub of grease." He held his arms up out of harm's way, the oil running in gloopy rivulets down to his prominent elbows.

"Come on over and stand here," Betsy said, indicating the side of the wagon. Dusty did as she instructed and leaned up against the wagon. She soaked a rag in grease busting liquid and began wiping his face and neck with it, ignoring his childish protests, laughing as he tried to squirm away. "Stand _still_, Dusty!" she said sternly. "This stuff really works- Andy's a genius."

"It stinks!" he argued. "Worse than skunk, and worse than ant potion! Andy might be a genius but I don't think he can smell his own inventions."

"Well, maybe you should have been a little more careful with the grease, then I wouldn't have to use so much of it," Betsy smiled, wiping the cloth thoroughly around and even into his ears. "How you managed to get so much of it on you, I'll never know."

"You try layin' under the stagecoach, see how easy you find it," Dusty muttered, licking grease buster off his bottom lip and immediately regretting it, screwing his face up and sticking out his tongue. "Ugh- it tastes even worse than it smells!"

"You're not meant to _eat _it," Betsy laughed. She wiped the rag carefully along either side of his nose, then straight down the middle, giving the end a playful tap while he went cross-eyed watching her, which made her giggle. "Silly."

Dusty squirmed against the wagon in silence as Betsy began wiping the cloth over his lips. She seemed to spend quite a long time on that part of his face, even though he didn't think he'd gotten that much oil on his mouth. He would have known about it if he had! "Um, Betsy," he mumbled.

"Shush, Dusty, I know what I'm doing," she smiled.

Dusty sighed, his oily hands pressed up against the wagon. "Mr. Callahan said we need to leave sometime _today_," he mentioned, casually.

"I'm just trying to be thorough," Betsy responded, moving slightly nearer.

Dusty suddenly noticed the twinkle in her eye. He pressed back against the wagon as she edged closer. "Um, _Betsy_," he repeated quietly.

"Dusty, I said 'shush'," Betsy smiled, wiping the cloth lovingly over his chin, so close now that he could feel her breath on his face. "I just need to get this last little bit off your face, just...here." She ran the clean corner of the rag once more over his lips, then smiled at him triumphantly. "There! All clean," she said coyly, tilting her face up to his.

Dusty felt his legs weaken as he suddenly realised what her true intentions were. He let out a soft hiss of air as as Betsy leaned forward to close the gap and pressed her mouth gently onto his.

He melted at once into the heat of her kiss, his hands opening and closing against the rough tarpaulin of the wagon, a sigh of contentment caught in his throat. His arms were too oily to hold her so instead he leaned his head forward and pulled softly at her lips with his own, losing himself in the nearness of her, filling his lungs with the same air that she breathed.

Betsy let go of the rag and pulled him towards her by the collar. She ran her fingers through his hair, down the sides of his face, his throat, then over the roughness of his shirt, his chest and finally his stomach where she felt the muscles contract as he drew in a sharp intake of air and made a half strangled noise against her mouth.

Across the clearing, Mr. Callahan, who was sitting on a log rubbing grease into the dry leather of Blarney's bridle, stared in astonishment at Lulu. "Do they think we don't know what's going on?" he said. They could both plainly see two pairs of legs through the wagon wheels that told them Dusty and Betsy were close enough to be kissing. "Mrs. Brookhaven was right- they _do_ need chaperoning!"

"Want me to go break 'em up?" Lulu drawled, a sly smile tugging at her ruby painted lips.

Mr. Callahan fidgeted uncomfortably. "Well, I sure ain't breakin' 'em up, I mean, I wouldn't want to do anything to embarrass poor Betsy, I don't care about Dusty, why, I oughta have a few words with my little pal about this."

Lulu patted the flustered, red-faced wagonmaster on the arm. "Don't worry, Cal, leave it to me," she grinned.

Betsy and Dusty had just about stopped kissing. Dusty was now staring hypnotically at the not-so demure young woman who seemed to be getting bolder by the day. Betsy smiled shyly back, her cheeks flushed, her hands still spread over his chest, moving with the rise and fall of his every breath. He was about to say something he hoped was deep and profound when they were both stunned by an ear splitting two-fingered whistle that pierced their eardrums and made them spring guiltily apart.

"You all better be decent back there, or I'm throwin' a bucket o' cold water over your two heads," Lulu warned as she appeared around the side of the wagon, her hands planted firmly on her hips and the pink feather bouncing jauntily in her hair. "Don't tell me you were just helpin' him to clean up," she said to Betsy, fixing her friend with an arch look of disbelief. "Poor boy looks like he just got hit by the express train to Lovestruck Schmucksville."

Dusty stared at the showgirl, his face a picture of puzzlement. Lulu's idioms always confounded him- he couldn't make head nor tail of what she was saying sometimes.

"C'mon, honey, Dusty can clean up by himself. Cal's already talkin' about chaperoning again, and I'm sure the last thing you all want is Mrs. Brookhaven followin' you around all day. If anything's gonna kill off your passion it'll be that woman on a mission to keep you pure." Lulu eyed Dusty up and down in a blatantly saucy manner. "Know what I mean, Tiger?"

"Oh, dear," Betsy said, flustered. "I didn't realise we were so obvious." She twisted the oily rag in her hands, looking at Dusty apologetically. "I'm sorry Dusty, I didn't mean to get you into trouble."

"Aw, hell, Dusty's always in trouble for something," Lulu grinned. "This ain't gonna make much of a difference. I'm just warnin' you, is all. Mrs. Brookhaven on your case from here to California? I sure wouldn't like it, put it that way."

Lulu gently escorted Betsy out from behind the wagon, leaving a perplexed Dusty to finish cleaning up his hands and arms.

"What are you doing, Betsy?" the showgirl said, once they were out of earshot. "You can't leave Dusty alone for one minute these days! The heat must have really gotten into your head. He your first beau, or what?"

Betsy blushed furiously. "He's not my _beau_," she hissed, like a young girl caught doing something naughty.

"The hell he ain't," Lulu spluttered. "You mean to say you kiss all men that way? Andy'd be pleased to hear it."

"All right, all right," Betsy pouted.

Lulu sighed, put her arm around Betsy's shoulders. "You gotta take it easy, Betsy. I know how much you like him and all, but it's a long way to California. Especially since we're lost at the same time. I know I ain't one to talk, but you gotta slow it down a little, you know what I'm sayin'? You gotta let him come to _you_."

"But what if he doesn't come to me?" Betsy said. "What if we meet someone on the trail that he likes better? What if all the women in California are beautiful?" She looked at Lulu, at the showgirl's fancy dress and feathers. "What if...what if he likes _you, _but he just won't admit it yet?"

"Honey, there ain't nothin' going on between me and Dusty. I just tease him. You've seen us playin'. He's like a brother to me."

"I hope you don't kiss your brother the way I've seen you kiss Dusty," Betsy said, slightly sulkily.

"Betsy, kissin' men is one o' my tactics to get what I want," Lulu said, somewhat proudly. "Sure I've kissed Dusty, but nine times out of ten it's gotten me nowhere."

"Doesn't stop you trying," Betsy said.

"What can I say? I wouldn't be Lulu if I stopped tryin'." Lulu primped her feather and wiggled her hips. "Don't mean there's anything goin' on. Besides," the showgirl leaned forward conspiratorially, "I kinda like the look of Callahan, know what I'm sayin'? Those big strong arms, that rugged, weatherbeaten face..." she mock-shivered, winking naughtily. "I'd roll my wagon for him any day."

Betsy giggled. "Lulu! Stop it!"

"I ain't lyin'," Lulu grinned. "I need a man who's stronger than me, honey. As sweet as he is, a skinny little thing like Dusty wouldn't last two minutes with ol' Lulu McQueen."

"Well, I guess that's not always how it looks to me," Betsy admitted, a little embarrassed at being suspicious of her good friend. "You're quite a force to be reckoned with, Lulu, and you know how impressionable Dusty is."

"Aw, Betsy honey!" Lulu made Betsy sit down on a nearby storage chest and parked herself next to the troubled schoolteacher. "You don't think you're in competition with me, do you? Does that explain all this 'lioness with her claws out' business? You thought you had to lure Dusty away from me?"

"Oh, Lulu, I've seen how it works for you. You wrap men around your little finger!"

Lulu tossed her head proudly. "That's the name o' the game, Sugar."

"But it makes me feel so...so _nothing_ compared to you. They see you first, and they don't see anything after that. I may as well be invisible."

"Oh, but Betsy, honey...it don't mean nothin'. It's all for show. Besides, Dusty ain't fooled by it. Dusty don't pay me any more attention than he pays Freckles- in fact, Freckles gets better treated than I do. And deep down, you _know_ that."

"I know, Lulu. And I do love you, really, I do. You've been the best friend I ever had." Betsy looked forlorn now, staring at her hands folded in her lap. "I just don't know what to do for the best," she admitted. "My mother would tan my hide if she saw how I was acting towards Dusty, but Dusty's been saying such lovely, sweet things to help me overcome the rules she used to impose. She was a very strict woman, Lulu. I thought coming out West would give me the freedom to be who I am- but I guess I still don't really know who I am, or who I even want to be. Those rules are still there, no matter what I do, only now it's _me _imposing them on myself." She turned her big eyes onto Lulu. "I thought by trying to be more like you it would solve everything, but it's just making things worse. Do you really think I'll scare him away?"

Lulu felt her big showgirl heart go out to Betsy. She pulled the shy brunette close in a warm hug, her spicy scent enveloping them both like a comforting cloud. "Pay no mind to me, Betsy," she said. "Dusty _needs_ a kick up the caboose at times. I just thought that maybe, just once in a while, if he wants to kiss you, you should let him make the first move, that's all."

"But I'm worried that he won't make the first move," Betsy murmured.

"Betsy! Of course he will," Lulu soothed. "You're a beautiful girl. He likes you. He kissed you first, didn't he? That evening behind the wagon. In fact he was the one who started this whole thing off."

"Yes,he did," Betsy smiled, remembering.

"Well. There y'go. You got no worries there. I know you're sick o' hearin' my advice, Betsy, but if you don't want Daphne Brookhaven followin' you around all day then I'd say just go about your business and don't bring too much attention to yourself where Dusty is concerned. We got months o' travelling ahead, and you got all that time to get acquainted. Know what I mean?"

# # # #

Later on, Betsy encountered Dusty helping Mr. Callahan replace one of the stagecoach's wheels that had needed minor repairs. There was a rudimentary jack holding up the vehicle and Dusty was on his knees spinning the locking nut into place before they let the stagecoach down.

"You're doing a wonderful job there, Dusty," she said, not really knowing much about how they changed the wheels, but thinking Dusty looked competent enough nonetheless.

"Thanks, Betsy," Dusty replied, looking up at her with a big smile. It wasn't often he got complimented. "This here's the locking nut. Without this, the wheel falls off."

"Like the last time," Mr. Callahan said, pointedly.

"Yeah," Dusty nodded with an embarrassed grin. "Like the last time. Good thing Mr. and Mrs. Brookhaven weren't inside when it happened, huh, Mr. Callahan?"

"Yes, Dusty," the big wagonmaster agreed. "What with them being the ones who pay our wages and all."

Dusty clambered to his feet and began winding the jack handle counter clockwise. "Sure would have been funny to see Mr. Brookhaven fall out into the dirt, though," he said, mischievously. The stagecoach began to lower slowly, until suddenly Dusty fumbled his grip and the jack handle spun out of his hands, causing the stagecoach to hit the ground hard, bouncing heavily but quietly on its newly greased suspension.

"Well, at least it's not squeaking now," Dusty proclaimed, shaking his hands and checking his fingers for damage as the stagecoach rocked gently to and fro.

It was then that they heard a sliding noise inside the stagecoach and then the muffled crash and tinkle that sounded suspiciously like a fine china tea set shattering into a million pieces.

Betsy clamped her hand over her mouth and stared at Dusty, who shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, his eyes darting around for the Brookhavens.

Mr. Callahan squeezed his eyes shut and covered his big, weatherbeaten face with both hands. "Little pal, what was I just saying about the Brookhavens paying our wages?" he sighed.

"Maybe we can get rid of the evidence without..." Dusty began, but it was too late. The Brookhavens had appeared, their upper-class ears obviously attuned to the delicate sound of fine china breaking. Especially when it was theirs.

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Brookhaven sadly after Mr. Callahan had removed the box of broken china from the stagecoach and set it on the ground so that they could survey the wreckage. The china tea set was unrecognisable except for the top half of a hideously patterned teapot and a part of the spout. "That was my mother's favourite tea set, and my grandmother's before hers!"

Mr. Brookhaven meanwhile, was standing next to Dusty with a sly smile spread across his face. "At last we've gotten rid of that hideous tea set," he whispered to the young scout, who stared back at him incredulously. "Remind me to increase your salary by five cents a month, my boy!"

They disposed of the shattered tea set by digging a hole and giving it a decent burial. Dusty actually removed his hat and stood like a proper mourner as Andy shovelled the dirt back over the top.

"Well, that's the end of that," Mr. Brookhaven said, comforting his wife and trying not to look too happy.

"I guess nothing lasts forever, huh, Mrs. Brookhaven?" Dusty said, putting his hat back on and attempting to join in the condolences.

"My mother would be so disappointed in me," Mrs. Brookhaven sighed, dramatically.

"Yeah, but she ain't here, though, so how would she know?" Dusty went on, oblivious to Mr. Callahan's hard stares. "Just like Betsy's mother ain't here either, right Betsy?"

Betsy felt her cheeks burn as everyone turned to stare at her. "Erm...that's right," she said nervously, hoping Dusty wasn't going to start elaborating, as he so often did when it was the wrong moment.

"Anyway," Dusty continued, "You got a much prettier tea set, Mrs. Brookhaven, I know you have, I've seen it. The one with little yellow and blue flowers on it. It's much nicer than that old thing." He waved dismissively at the small mound of earth covering the shattered heirlooms.

"He's right, dear," said Mr. Brookhaven. "The one we bought together, in Boston, before we left. Remember? I said I liked the one with the blue flowers, and you said you liked the one with the yellow flowers. So I called up my company and had them make us a set especially, with both blue and yellow flowers, and it didn't cost us a cent. Surely you remember?"

"Of course, Carter!" Mrs. Brookhaven said, visibly brightening. "I remember how happy you were at saving all that money!" With that, the Brookhavens drifted away, smiling and laughing as they remembered all the times that Mr. Brookhaven had avoided paying money for anything.

Mr. Callahan stared at Dusty and shook his head. "I don't know how you do it, little pal," he said resignedly. "Anyone else would have been thrown off the wagon train for that."

Lulu leaned close to Betsy and stage-whispered out of the side of her mouth. "Nine lives, what did I tell ya."

They all went back to camp. Andy slung the dirty shovel over his shoulder and walked ahead with Lulu and Mr. Callahan, Betsy lagged behind a little ways with Dusty, hoping no-one would take it the wrong way and send a chaperone to step in between them.

"Dusty, I thought for one minute back there you were going to start talking about my mother," Betsy said softly, nudging his shoulder playfully.

"Now why would I do that?" Dusty replied. "It just seemed to me that you and Mrs. Brookhaven both worry about your mothers too much, thinkin' about what they might say even though they ain't here."

Betsy smiled ruefully. "I never thought I'd have something in common with Mrs. Brookhaven," she said, watching dry earth kick up in clouds as they walked.

"You're nothing like Mrs. Brookhaven," Dusty said, scuffing his boots through the dirt, checking for ants. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with Mrs. Brookhaven, she's real nice and everything but, well, you're a lot prettier for a start. And you don't think an old tea set is the most important thing in the world. And besides, you also got something else Mrs. Brookhaven doesn't have."

"Oh?" Betsy said, noticing the bashful smile on his face. "And what would that be, Dusty?"

Dusty reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. "Me," he said, as confidently as he could.

"Oh, Dusty," Betsy giggled. "Mrs. Brookhaven will be awfully upset when she finds out."

"Yeah, she'll be stuck with Mr. B for the rest of her life," Dusty said, tightening his grip on her fingers. "Drinkin' tea out of silly ol' tea sets instead of bein' happy with coffee in a tin cup like you and me."

"I feel like the luckiest girl in the world," giggled Betsy.

"I sure feel like the luckiest guy," Dusty responded with a grin, pushing his untidy hair out of his eyes.

"Oh, Dusty," Betsy smiled, blushing.

"Can I kiss you?" Dusty asked, hesitantly.

"Of course you can!" Betsy laughed, stopping so that he could pull her into a sweet embrace, his arms held tight around her and the smell of warm sun on his face. And this time, she didn't give a broken tea set who saw them.


	12. Hi Chaperone!

_The alternate title to this chapter would have been Enter the Daphne, a play on Bruce Lee's Enter the Dragon, but it sounded vaguely inappropriate =)_

_Thanks everyone for your votes of confidence, the inspiration has returned, and even if the story still meanders, at least I feel it's going somewhere now. Courtney, Karen, Spev- I owe you big time._

# # # #

"Mr. Callahan, I'm telling you! That boy is a liability!" Mr. Brookhaven was in a fit of high dudgeon, his chest puffed out, his jowly cheeks red. In his hand he was holding a velvet drawstring bag. As he shook it, the contents inside rattled and tinkled.

"Well, you sure changed your tune, Mr. Brookhaven," the big wagonmaster remarked with pursed lips. "Yesterday you were full of praise for Dusty. You even promised him an extra five cents a _month_, if I recall rightly."

"Yes! Well," Mr. Brookhaven blustered, "that was before I discovered that not only did he smash my wife's beloved tea set, he also broke my antique shaving mirror, which I only discovered a moment ago as I prepared to go about my morning rituals!"

_The first one being to pull your head out of your behind_, thought Mr. Callahan. "Your wife's beloved tea set? As I remember, you were more than happy to see the last of it."

"Dearest Daphne, however, is still in a state of depression. But that's not the point! My antique shaving mirror cost my co-investor ten dollars, so not only is a precious piece of history gone forever, a man will now never get his money back!" Mr. Brookhaven looked heavenward at that last remark, as though begging for forgiveness from God.

"Couldn't you just..._give_ him his money back?" Mr. Callahan said, knowing he was making an observation that would have the old banker spluttering.

He was right.

"_Give_ him his money back?" Mr. Brookhaven went puce. "_Give_ him...? My dear Mr. Callahan, know you _nothing_ of good business practice? A hundred years hence, that mirror would have been worth at least double what it was worth now. He would have gotten his money back then, with an option to reinvest. Good Lord. Do you think money is something you just _give away_?"

"Well, seems to me that if you borrow it from someone in the first place..." Mr. Callahan sighed heavily. He had work to do, and Mr. Brookhaven was standing in his way like a little peacock, waving the velvet bag in front of his face. Then he realised what the banker had just said. "Wait. A hundred years? Mr. Brookhaven, I doubt either you _or _your friend are going to be around in a hundred years."

"Precisely," the wily old critter smirked, his beady eyes lighting up behind his spectacles.

Mr. Callahan resisted the urge to put his face in his hands. "So, the point you're trying to make is?"

"The point, my good man, is that if Dusty had been paying more attention, my wife's tea set and my shaving mirror would still be in one piece. Or, in the tea set's case, twelve pieces, but all unbroken. He pays no attention to anything he's told!"

"Hey, now wait a minute. If you're insulting my little pal," Mr. Callahan began.

"I'm not insulting Dusty. I'm merely pointing out his complete lack of awareness of anything that goes on around him, and now that he's infatuated with dear Betsy, he's just getting worse! I'm not paying him to...to..._canoodle _around the back of the wagon all day. I expect him to do some work!"

_How about if you did some work once in a while, you old coot, _thought Mr. Callahan irritably, although the indignant banker did have a point about the infatuation. Dusty was distracted enough at the best of times, but now that he was mooning around all day with that soppy grin on his face it was becoming even harder to get through to him. "So what are you suggesting?" the big wagonmaster asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Well," Mr. Brookhaven said importantly, "I've had a discourse with my dear wife and we've both agreed that Daphne will commence chaperoning duties as from today. No longer will Dusty and Betsy be allowed to...to..._interact_ in anything less than a platonic manner, at least during working hours."

Mr. Callahan's eyebrows raised so high they disappeared under his hat. "You sayin' they can do it at night? Ain't that worse?"

"I'm saying, Mr. Callahan, that during the hours of work, which my company is paying for, Dusty must work. Not...not...fumble around in a romantic fashion with that dear girl Elizabeth."

Mr. Callahan was slightly worried about the amount of times Mr. Brookhaven kept mentioning Dusty and Betsy's romantic trysts. He himself had certainly witnessed a kiss here and there, which could be a little annoying if you were just trying to go about your business, but Brookhaven was suggesting the two young people had been acting like animals in season. However, Daphne Brookhaven was a delightful, charming woman and it would probably do Dusty some good to have his mind refocused on the reason why he was here in the first place.

"All right, Mr. Brookhaven, I don't see how it can do any harm to have your wife start lookin' out for Betsy. On one condition." The wagonmaster raised an index finger. "You don't take away that extra five cents a month you promised my little pal."

Mr. Brookhaven scowled slightly. Then he sighed and acquiesced. "All right, sir. It's a deal. But only if I see a marked improvement in Dusty's performance. Otherwise, the dear boy may end up finding _he _owes _me_."

# # # #

Dusty was shaving. It wasn't something he did every morning, in fact it was something he would rather have avoided altogether. With him was Lulu, who knew the mess her friend got into when he shaved and had decided to accompany him in case he required immediate medical attention. She had even thought to bring along some basic first aid equipment- a bottle of antiseptic and some bandages.

Andy had nailed a basic, wooden framed mirror to a tree and provided a small wooden table upon which stood a bowl of warm water fresh from the kettle. Dusty was staring forlornly at his foam covered face while he splashed the razor blade around in the water. "I don't even know where to start," he complained with a sigh.

"Start somewhere it ain't gonna hurt," Lulu grinned. "After all, they say the first cut is the deepest."

"That ain't helping, Lulu," the young scout muttered. He raised the sharpened blade to his cheek. Then he closed his eyes.

"I wouldn't do that," the showgirl said drily.

"I don't like the sight of blood," Dusty replied. He faced the mirror even though his eyes were shut. Gripping the razor firmly, he tensed and raked the blade right the way down his cheek, drawing blood straight away. "Ow!" he cried, as the small red bead grew fat and dark and began sliding down his face.

"Dusty!" Lulu said in despair. "Here, lemme get that." She mopped at the blood with the corner of an old handkerchief. "No wonder they call 'em cut throat razors."

"It hurts," Dusty whined.

"Good thing Betsy ain't here to see you behavin' like a big ol' baby." Lulu added antiseptic to the handkerchief and applied it gently. "There. It's just a teeny tiny scratch. But you gotta be more careful. And keep your eyes open!"

Dusty frowned, faced the mirror again. He scowled at his own reflection. "Now stay still," he warned it. He drew the blade down his cheek again. His hand shook slightly but there was no blood this time and he visibly relaxed. He rinsed the blade and shook water everywhere. "Why do I gotta shave anyway," he asked, of no-one in particular. "I could grow one of those big old mountain guy beards, like that old fellow we met in St. Louis."

"That 'old fellow' was only twenty nine," Lulu remarked. "Those beards don't suit nobody. Who'd want to kiss anybody with one o' those? I know I wouldn't, and I sure don't think Betsy would, either."

"Still, it'd make me look adventurous," Dusty said, recklessly scraping the blade past his ear.

"It'd make you look like a diseased raccoon."

Dusty yelped again.

"You didn't even cut yourself," Lulu frowned.

"I _nearly_ did."

Lulu shook her head. Her towering curls bobbed and bounced. "Here, give me that razor, Dusty. It takes a woman to do a man's job." She took the razor from his trembling fingers and stepped in front of him. "Don't worry. I shaved my daddy's face once when he was blind drunk with his head goin' this way an' that, and I didn't draw a single bead o' blood. Just stand still." With that, the showgirl firmly grasped Dusty's head in one hand and raised the gleaming razor blade to the left side of his face.

Twenty long minutes later, Lulu had finished shaving Dusty and was washing his face free of all traces of foam. His cheeks glowed pink and smooth, stubble-free and unblemished, save for the cut he'd given himself at the start. He stared at her in gratitude while she wiped around his nose. "You're lucky you got me and Betsy to look after you," she said affectionately, almost getting the urge to kiss him herself, he looked so delighted.

"You can say that again," Dusty agreed. When Lulu was done, he admired his clean shaven reflection in the mirror. "Guess I do look better without a beard," he mused, stroking his chin.

"All you need now is a haircut," Lulu smiled, tugging at the lengthening hanks around his ears.

# # # #

When they got back to camp, Mr. Callahan was waiting. He looked a little nervous.

"Dusty, I got some bad news, little pal," he said morosely, putting his hands on Dusty's shoulders. "It seems Mrs. Brookhaven's tea set wasn't the only thing that got broke yesterday." He proceeded to tell a puzzled Dusty and a perturbed Lulu all about Mr. Brookhaven's antique shaving mirror.

"But Mr. Callahan, there's a shaving mirror right on that tree over there," Dusty protested. "We've just been using it, ain't that right, Lulu?"

"That's right, Dusty," Lulu placed her hands squarely on her hips. "Won't do no harm for Mr. B to shave with the rest of the mortals for once."

"That ain't the point," Mr. Callahan sighed. He went on to explain that Mr. Brookhaven's money obsession had made the incident a lot worse than it actually was, but he was embarrassed about mentioning the chaperoning and started hedging around the issue. It was just then that both Dusty and Lulu heard enthusiastic female voices and peered past Mr. Callahan's bear-like shoulders to see Daphne Brookhaven walking arm-in-arm with Betsy across the camp site to the Brookhaven's stagecoach.

Lulu raised her eyebrows at Mr. Callahan, who looked flustered.

"That's the _other_ thing," he confessed.

# # # #

Dusty was bored out of his mind. He hadn't seen Betsy all morning. She had disappeared with Mrs. Brookhaven even before breakfast, and when Lulu had offered to find out what was going on, she came back and reported that Daphne Brookhaven had decided that she and Betsy were going to have a 'Ladies Day' together. _Guess I don't fit into that category,_ the showgirl had harrumphed, before grabbing herself a cup of strong coffee and plonking herself down on a log.

Now Dusty was himself sitting on a log, having been given the task of polishing the Brookhavens' silverware. Mr. Callahan had been highly annoyed at first, saying that polishing silverware was hardly a priority on a working wagon train. But Mr. Brookhaven had persisted until Callahan threw up his hands and let the old banker get on with it.

_Mark my words_, Mr. Callahan had said quietly to Andy once they were out of earshot,_ if that money-lovin' jackal keeps this up longer'n two days, I don't care about his company ownin' this wagon train, I'll tie him up and gag him and he can ride on top of his own stagecoach all the way from here to California. _

Polishing silverware was easy enough, Dusty decided. On a list of backbreaking tasks it probably rated quite low compared to wagon wheel repairing. It was just incredibly, incredibly boring. And messy. It was great the first couple of times when he got a spoon so shiny he could see his face in it, and he spent a further ten minutes entertaining himself with trying to figure out why his face was upside down in one side of the spoon when it was right way up in the other. But a loud throat clearing noise from Mr. Brookhaven and an unsubtle tapping of his fob watch brought Dusty out of his pleasant reverie and forced him to get on with his task.

"I don't know why anyone has to have this much silver," he muttered, rubbing at a tarnished candlestick. "What are you gonna do with it out here? Impress the rattlesnakes? Boy. Even the Indians won't want it once they realise they gotta spend all day cleanin' it."

"I don't intend parting with my precious silver to any old Indians," Mr. Brookhaven said haughtily.

"Yeah, well, some o' them _old Indians_ don't wait to be asked," Dusty grumbled, his head bent low over the candlestick.

"Don't be belligerent, my boy."

Dusty scowled. His mood wasn't improved when he heard ladylike laughter coming from across the clearing. "What are they doing now?" he asked, lifting his head and peering at Mr. Brookhaven from under his hat.

"Needlework of some sort, I believe," came the slightly disinterested reply.

"Gee. Sounds almost as boring as silver polishing."

"Dusty, please. I gave you a job to do- I'd appreciate it if you just got on and did it."

"How come you get to give me jobs now anyway?" the young scout demanded.

"Because you broke my antique shaving mirror. Which means seven years bad luck, by the way." Mr. Brookhaven smiled sweetly. "For _you_ that is, dear boy."

Mr. Callahan and Lulu were watching from across the camp site.

"You know, I never thought I'd say this, but _poor Dusty_," the showgirl muttered, twirling a long blonde curl around her fingers.

"Well," said Mr. Callahan, "I had to appease Brookhaven somewhat over his shaving mirror, and I did promise I'd go along with the chaperone idea. But Dusty don't deserve to be humiliated, I agree."

"I sure know where I'd like to shove that candlestick," Lulu frowned. "Although there's probably a ton of other stuff already up there."

Mr. Callahan guffawed at the showgirl's colourful insinuation. "I think you hit the nail on the head there, Lu," he grinned broadly. "Thing is, my little pal don't take too kindly to bein' ordered around by anyone but me. This could get pretty interesting."

The candlestick gleamed. Despite his boredom, Dusty had to admit he'd done a pretty good job. "How's that, Mr. Brookhaven?" he said proudly, holding up the candlestick and turning it around so that it caught the light and sparkled brightly.

"Very good, Dusty," Mr. Brookhaven agreed. "You see? 'Less haste, more speed.'"

Dusty placed the candlestick carefully back into its box. Then he beamed up at the old banker. "Can I take a break please, Mr. Brookhaven?" he asked politely.

"A break? Whatever for?"

"Oh, well, you know. I don't want to have to spell it out," Dusty smiled innocently.

Mr. Brookhaven sighed heftily. "Oh, all right then. But be quick. Time is money!"

"Thank you, sir." Dusty sprang to his feet and made a run for it across the clearing.

Mr. Callahan and Lulu were almost knocked over like ninepins as Dusty came haring across the camp site towards them, one hand clamped onto his hat and his legs pistoning wildly.

"Dusty, _Dusty_! What are you doing?" Mr. Callahan asked, holding onto his little pal while Dusty carried on desperately trying to move forward.

"I'm running away," Dusty told him in between gasps, his feet kicking up clouds of dirt.

"No, you are not," Mr. Callahan said decisively. He waited patiently until Dusty got breathless and stopped running on the spot. Then he let go. "No-one runs away from my wagon train."

"But it's not your wagon train, it's Mr. Brookhaven's wagon train!" Dusty said, throwing his hands in the air. "And I don't like working for him!"

"Oh, Dusty. It's only for a coupla days," Lulu tried to console him.

"You do it then!" Dusty retorted. "You'd probably like it better anyway."

Lulu was outraged. "I would not!" she spluttered.

Callahan held both hands up, palms facing outwards. "Now, calm down, both of you. I am not letting total anarchy rule in my camp. Dusty, it's only for a couple of days. Let the man get over that damned broken mirror..."

"He said it was seven years bad luck!" Dusty cried. "For _me_!"

"He did, did he? Well, that was below the belt. What I'm sayin' is, leave it to me, little pal. I will get you out of this."

Dusty seemed appeased. He tugged nervously at the chinstrap of his hat. "What about Betsy?" he asked. "Why won't they let me see her?"

Lulu laughed despite herself. "Dusty, honey, they ain't holdin' her prisoner. You can go over and see her anytime you want. 'Fact, I'll _chaperone_ you over there myself."

Mr. Callahan raised his eyes skyward. "For once, would everyone please work _with _me rather than against me?" he sighed.

"Mr. Callahan, if you get me out of working for Mr. Brookhaven, I'll work with you for the rest of your life," said Dusty, pulling off one boot and pouring a river of dirt back onto the ground.

Mr. Callahan laughed and patted Dusty's cheek. "There's no need to resort to threats, little pal," he chuckled.

# # # #

Later on, after polishing a mountain of silverware, Dusty and Lulu went looking for Daphne Brookhaven and Betsy.

"I got that stuff all over my hands," Dusty was complaining. "My fingers have gone black and my nails have gone green. Look." He thrust his hands right in Lulu's face, causing her to nearly trip over her own feet.

"Dusty, you better not let Betsy hear you whinin'," the showgirl retorted with a grimace, pushing his hands away. "That's if we ever find 'em. Where've they gotten to?"

"Over there," Dusty said, pointing. "I can see 'em through the trees." With that, he went bounding off like a jackrabbit, leaving Lulu to follow behind at her own leisurely pace. After all, Lulu McQueen didn't rush for anyone unless it was an emergency.

Dusty burst out into a small clearing, startling both Betsy and Mrs. Brookhaven. The former was very pleased to see him, the latter slightly less so.

"Dusty!" cried Betsy, beaming from ear to ear. "Look what we found! Wild berries!"

"Wild berries? Oh, boy! _Wild berries_!" Dusty ran over to the clump of bushes they were standing beside. There were small round fruits about the size of blueberries covering every branch. He gazed longingly at them all, wondering which to eat first.

"We were going to take them back to Andy to determine whether they were safe enough to eat," continued Betsy as Lulu arrived. "Just to make sure they're edible, and not..." she stopped as they all turned round to see Dusty stuffing great handfuls of the juicy looking fruits into his mouth.

"...poisonous," Betsy finished.

Dusty stopped chewing, his blue eyes flitting nervously from showgirl to schoolteacher to banker's wife, who all stared back with varying degrees of resignation and dismay. "P-p-p...poi...?" he mumbled, then promptly leaned over and began spitting huge gobs of chewed up fruit onto the ground, hacking and coughing and spluttering until Mrs. Brookhaven went pale and had to start fanning herself. "You didn't tell me they were poisonous! They taste just like blueberries!"

"We don't know if they are poisonous! They probably are blueberries," Betsy explained, patting his back and handing him a handkerchief, trying to make him feel better. "You're not starting to feel sick, are you?"

"He might not be, but I am," said Mrs. Brookhaven in a delicate voice. "What is he doing here, anyway? This was meant to be a day for Betsy and me to enjoy the finer things in life."

"Yeah, well, he just wanted to come say hello," said Lulu. "Don't worry, Mrs. B. I'm _chaperonin'_ him."

Betsy straightened, turning to face her showgirl friend. "What do you mean, you're chaperoning him?"

"I'm makin' sure he don't get into no trouble. Know what I mean?" Lulu grinned, shaking her feather.

"No, I don't know what you mean," said Betsy. "Dusty, what's going on?"

"Well," said Dusty, whose lips and tongue had gone purple with juice from the unknown fruit, "Mr. Callahan said that Mr. Brookhaven said that I can't see you on my own in daylight hours, so I have to be chaperoned. Lulu's my chaperone."

"Just like Mrs. Brookhaven is _your_ chaperone," Lulu smiled at her schoolteacher friend.

"My chaperone?" Betsy said. She turned to Mrs. Brookhaven. "You didn't say anything about being a chaperone, Mrs. Brookhaven!"

"Didn't I?" Mrs. Brookhaven said, perfectly innocently. "I'm sure I must have mentioned it."

"No, you didn't. Well, I have to say, I feel a little insulted!"

"Now, Betsy dear, we were having such a lovely day," Mrs. Brookhaven said, placatingly. "Why don't we all just join in and have fun together? Let's start by taking this fruit back to Andy and determining whether it's edible. And if it is, we can make a great big blueberry pie. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

"Oh, wow, that's a _great_ idea, Mrs. Brookhaven!" Dusty said enthusiastically. "Here, we can put the berries in this!" He pulled his hat off and turned it upside down, immediately setting about the task of filling it with the ripe, juicy berries.

Happy that at least someone was deriving pleasure from her suggestion, Mrs. Brookhaven joined Dusty and began helping him heap berries into his hat. "That's the spirit, Dusty! Just imagine it, a great big warm slice of delicious blueberry pie."

"Mrs. Brookhaven, you're makin' my mouth water," Dusty said, pulling berry after berry off each stalk. "And I don't feel sick neither, so these _must_ be real blueberries!"

Meanwhile, Lulu and Betsy stood by, watching the two of them laughing and giggling and filling Dusty's hat with berries.

"Looks to me like we all just switched chaperones," Lulu remarked drily.

# # # #

Back at the camp site, Mr. Callahan was having a mild disagreement with Mr. Brookhaven. "Now, I don't mind him working for you, Mr. Brookhaven, as long as it's a reasonable request. Something that benefits the wagon train as a whole, not just yourself. Now, I reckon polishing your silver most definitely falls into that second category. Do you see what I'm sayin'?"

Mr. Brookhaven pursed his fleshy lips. "Life isn't all about mending wagon wheels, Mr. Callahan," he said stubbornly.

"On the contrary," said Andy, who was with Mr. Callahan for moral support. "On a trip like this, life _is_ all about mending wagon wheels."

"Thank you, Andrew," said Mr. Callahan.

"Oh all right," Mr. Brookhaven conceded. "But we all know Dusty's hopeless at any kind of manual labour. Isn't it safer to have him sitting quietly out of harm's way?"

Mr. Callahan thought about this for a couple of seconds, imagining the peace and quiet of working without Dusty's constant clumsiness ruining everything. Then he remembered that Dusty was his friend, and he reverted to being indignant. "Now, wait a minute! I won't have you speak about Dusty that way," he said gruffly. "Even if it is partly true. He's my little sidekick. I like havin' him around. We're a team. Callahan and Dusty. Like bacon and eggs, macaroni and cheese, spaghetti and meatballs. Dusty's the meatball," he joked to Andy as an aside.

"But what about paying me back for breaking my mirror?" the wily old banker persisted.

"Surely getting you to California as quickly and as efficiently as possible is more than payback enough?" Mr. Callahan said, as diplomatically as he could.

"Hmmm." Mr. Brookhaven stroked his chin. He wanted to make sure that Mr. Callahan and Andy could see that he was having to give this some serious thought. The gravity of the moment, though, was spoiled by the loud sounds of the other members of the wagon train returning through the trees.

Daphne Brookhaven's loud, joyful laughter was the first thing the three men heard, followed by a strange, booming voice that, as it got nearer, turned out to be Dusty doing a very loose impersonation of Mr. Brookhaven. "Polish that bowl, my dear boy," Dusty was saying, "I want to be able to see my face in its bottom!"

Daphne Brookhaven laughed again, and didn't stop even when they got to where her husband was standing, open-mouthed. "Oh, Carter! I'm having the most wonderful time! I'm so glad you suggested chaperoning these delightful young people. Show them what we've brought, Dusty."

Dusty grinned and held up his hat full of berries. "We need to know if we can eat 'em," he said, still in Mr. Brookhaven's voice. "Because we got them for nothing."

Mr. Brookhaven's face started going red. "Is he making fun of me?"

"Oh, do loosen up, Carter," Mrs. Brookhaven said, swatting her husband's arm with her fan. "It's just a bit of affectionate teasing. Besides, if it turns out we found blueberries, we intend to make a big delicious blueberry pie!"

"So what do you reckon?" said Dusty in his own voice now. "Me and Mrs. Brookhaven think they're blueberries, but the girls want 'em tested."

"'_The girls_'?" Lulu whispered to Betsy.

"Looks like you did your own testing, little pal," Mr. Callahan said, indicating Dusty's lips which were still dyed slightly purple.

"Oh, yeah," Dusty admitted shyly. "I guess I was a little hasty. 'Less haste, more speed', ain't that so, Mr. Brookhaven?"

"He's pushing his luck now," said Mr. Brookhaven, about as threateningly as a sponge.

Andy plucked a berry out of Dusty's hat and held it up. "Well, it sure looks like a blueberry."

"How are we gonna know?" said Mr. Callahan.

Andy turned the tiny fruit around and peered at it from all angles. Then he popped it into his mouth, chewed it and swallowed. After another moment of stunned silence where everyone stared at him as he pulled faces and frowned, he finally declared, "yep, it's a blueberry."

"Blueberries! Hooray!" Dusty yelled and threw his hat up into the air, raining blueberries down on everyone's heads.

# # # #

That evening, they feasted on the hot blueberry pie which Betsy and Daphne Brookhaven made, assisted now and again by Dusty and Lulu. The pastry was a little chewy due to the quality of the flour and the lack of all necessary ingredients, but no-one minded in the least. They all proclaimed it the most delicious thing they'd ever tasted.

The only thing Mr. Brookhaven found to complain about were the seating arrangements. His dear wife Daphne was sitting over on the log with the 'young people', squeezed in between Betsy and Dusty, laughing gaily at something Dusty was saying. In fact, it seemed that every time the boy opened his mouth he said the most hilarious thing Daphne had ever heard.

"I'm not sure I approve of this chaperoning business after all," the old banker muttered to Mr. Callahan, who was sitting nearby.

"Why, Mr. Brookhaven, wasn't it your idea in the first place to have your wife escort dear Betsy?" The big wagonmaster tried hard to hide the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Yes, _Betsy_," Mr. Brookhaven pouted. "Not Dusty! She's hardly left the boy's side since this afternoon!"

"Looks like she's takin' her job seriously, Mr. Brookhaven. Thought that's what you liked."

Mr. Brookhaven continued to stare dolefully at his wife laughing at all of Dusty's jokes and bad impressions. "Please don't force me to eat my words, Mr. Callahan," he murmured.

Mr. Callahan scooped up a huge forkful of fruit and pastry and waved it in the air, inhaling its heavenly sweet aroma. "Ahhhhh," he sighed. "Ain't nothin' like the taste of humble pie."

With that, the big wagonmaster piled the food into his mouth and chewed happily, grinning at the morose look on Mr. Brookhaven's face.


	13. What Daphne Did Next

"Mr. Callahan? I think I know where we are." Dusty was scanning the distant horizon, his eyes screwed up in imitation of a thoughtful frown. Mr. Callahan, riding Blarney alongside the gently rolling stagecoach, looked up at his little pal, his own face shifting with subtle emotions that resolved themselves into a picture of tentative and slightly hopeful curiosity.

"You do, Dusty? Where?"

"We're somewhere in the Midwest."

Mr. Callahan let out all the breath he'd been unconsciously holding in a huge sigh of exasperation. "Dusty! I _know_ that! I know we're '_somewhere in the Midwest'!_"

"Well, now I know it too," the young scout grinned. "Two heads are better than one, huh Mr. Callahan?"

"Unless one of those heads is yours," Mr. Callahan muttered, deflated.

The stagecoach continued bouncing along, the Brookhavens happily ensconced inside.

"Mrs. Brookhaven sure is nice, ain't she, Mr. Callahan?"

Mr. Callahan wondered why he was still riding alongside Dusty and his inconsistent conversations that changed tack so wildly and suddenly.

"Like yesterday, when we were pickin' blueberries? Mrs. Brookhaven was the only one who helped out. Lulu didn't want to get blueberry juice all over her hands, and Betsy was still sore at findin' out Mrs. Brookhaven was her chaperone."

"Well, at least the chaperone business is all out in the open," Mr. Callahan said resignedly. "Last thing anyone needs on this wagon train is people keeping secrets from each other."

"And you know what else she said?" Dusty looked down at Mr. Callahan with a grave expression. "She said she likes bein' rich but sometimes it stops her from havin' fun."

Mr. Callahan raised a finger to his lips. "Shh," he whispered, inclining his head towards the main body of the stagecoach. "She might hear you!"

"It must be good to be rich in some ways," Dusty carried on at the same volume. "You can buy anything you want. But it's important to have fun, too." At that, he nodded sagely.

"Nicely put, Confucius," said the wagonmaster with a beaming grin.

Dusty peered over at his friend quizzically. "Mr. Callahan, I'm _Dusty_. You okay? Is the sun gettin' to your head?"

"I know who you are, Dusty," the wagonmaster chuckled. "Confucius was an ancient Chinese philosopher. He said a lot of wise things. I was being funny."

"You were getting me mixed up with an ancient Chinese dead guy and you think that's funny?" Dusty looked mildly indignant.

"No, Dusty, I..." Mr. Callahan shook his head. "Never mind."

"I wonder if people will remember things I've said after I'm dead," Dusty mused.

"Dusty, people don't even remember things you say while you're alive."

Dusty was unaffected by Mr. Callahan's gentle ribbing. "You know what else Mrs. Brookhaven said? She said that if I was just a little bit younger, and she was just a little bit older, I could almost be her son." Dusty now wore an expression of beatific contentment. "That's a nice thing to say, ain't it Mr. Callahan? I ain't never been someone's son before."

Mr. Callahan, as ever, kept his dignity. "What about your _own_ parents, Dusty?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, I meant someone _else's_ son. Not just my own parents. If I was Mrs. Brookhaven's son, I'd be rich."

"I thought you said it wasn't important to be rich?"

"I said it was good to be rich, but important to have fun." Dusty frowned and almost looked inward to his own thoughts. "Didn't I say that?"

Mr. Callahan laughed affably. "Dusty. Never mind other people remembering what you say- _you _can't even remember what you say."

# # # #

On the covered wagon that was following along about three hundred yards behind, Betsy was sitting next to Lulu and gazing forlornly at Dusty.

"I hardly saw him at all yesterday," she sighed. "Mrs. Brookhaven didn't leave his side all evening. All that laughing and giggling. And I swear she kept touching his arm."

"Oh, Betsy- they were just having fun," Lulu replied sympathetically. "Poor old Mrs. B never gets the chance to cut loose. Does her good to get away from Mr. B now and again."

"But not with Dusty! She's meant to be chaperoning _me, _and _you're_ meant to be chaperoning _him_." Betsy stared miserably at her showgirl friend's tumbling blonde curls and impressive cleavage which wobbled with every jolt and shudder of the wagon. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Oh! I don't know which is worse!"

Lulu laughed. "Betsy, honey, don't you worry about it. Everything'll work out just fine. You'll see."

# # # #

Dusty jumped nimbly down from the driver's seat. They had pulled into yet another of the small clearings that Mr. Callahan was so good at finding, and the big wagonmaster had decided they'd stay there for the night as it was cool and shady and there was water nearby.

The first thing Dusty did was pat the horses and tell them what a good job they'd done that day. They tossed their heads almost as if they understood, but Dusty had decided a while back that they weren't half as smart as Freckles. When he'd told Mr. Callahan his theory, his big friend had laughed and replied, _you're not even half as smart as Freckles- and come to think of it, neither am I._

After petting and thanking his two horse team, Dusty decided to open the stagecoach door for Mrs. Brookhaven. Just as he approached the door however, it flew open and conked him on the nose.

"Oww!" Dusty's hands flew to his face and he gave a muffled cry and spun around in a circle as a puffed-up but bewildered looking Carter Brookhaven emerged from the vehicle.

"Why, Dusty, dear boy, whatever is the matter?" the old banker demanded. "You look like one of those dreadful Indians doing a war dance!"

"You hib be od de dose!" Dusty exclaimed, his eyes streaming.

"I'm sorry, Dusty, I can't hear a single word you're saying with your hands in front of your face like that." Mr. Brookhaven turned his attention back to the open door and extended his arm for his wife to take hold of. "Come along, darling. Time for our evening constitutional."

Daphne Brookhaven stepped down from the van and gasped as she saw Dusty bent over with his face in his hands. "Oh! Dusty, whatever is the matter?" She rushed immediately to his side and began fussing over him.

Mr. Brookhaven raised his eyes to the sky and sighed loudly and irritatedly. "Daphne, dear! Do come along. It's probably nothing. He probably got stung by a mosquito or something equally bizarre."

"You doe ge' stug by bozkitoes you ge' bip," Dusty muttered as Mrs. Brookhaven gently attempted to prise his hands away from his nose.

"Sorry, dear boy," Mr. Brookhaven said dismissively. "You're completely unintelligible. Not that you ever _are_ intelligible, even when you aren't jumping around like a wounded hare."

"I said, _you don't get stung by mosquitoes, you get bit_!" Dusty shouted, his face finally exposed.

Mrs. Brookhaven winced at the sudden noise, but calmly turned the young scout's face towards her to get a better look at what was troubling him. "Why, Dusty! Your nose is bright red! Whatever have you done to it?" She fixed Dusty with a look that was a cross between anxious mother and intrigued eyewitness.

"The stagecoach door hit me when it opened," Dusty pouted, fixing Mr. Brookhaven with a look that was a cross between aggrieved son and soldier injured in the line of duty.

"Well, whatever were you _standing there_ for?" Mr. Brookhaven fixed Dusty with a look that was a cross between embarrassed culprit and cuckolded husband.

"What in the name of jehosophat is going on over here?" Mr. Callahan had arrived and was fixing all of them with a look that was just cross.

"Mr. Brookhaven hit me in the face with the stagecoach door!" Dusty accused, pointing directly at the banker with his arm fully outstretched.

"It was an_ accident_," Mr. Brookhaven drawled, already tired of the sideshow. "What did he expect? He was standing right in front of it!"

"I was coming over to open the door for Mrs. Brookhaven," Dusty carried on. "That's what a gentleman does, ain't it?"

"Dusty! Hold your horses and calm down," said Mr. Callahan gruffly.

By now, Andy, Betsy and Lulu had also wandered over, all wearing expressions of restrained intrigue. "What's goin' on?" asked Lulu, her hands on her hips.

"I was gonna open the door for Mrs. Brookhaven, only Mr. Brookhaven opened the door first and hit me in the face with it," Dusty pouted again, wiping his wet eyes for effect.

"Sounds like an accident to me," mused Mr. Callahan.

"Oh, but it _was_ an accident!" Mrs. Brookhaven sighed, patting Dusty's face. "Wasn't it, Dusty? It wasn't Carter's fault, he didn't know you were trying your best to be a gentleman."

"Just 'cause I ain't rich," Dusty muttered, looking mortally wounded.

"Now, Dusty. One doesn't have to be rich to be a gentleman," Mrs. Brookhaven smiled gently, reaching up to push a hank of hair out of Dusty's eyes.

"But it certainly helps," finished her husband, still standing at the open door and looking even more mortally wounded, his bushy eyebrows ascending and fleshy jowls wobbling.

"One doesn't have to be rich to be a lady, either," Betsy whispered to Lulu as she watched Mrs. Brookhaven fussing over Dusty, "and if I weren't a lady, I'd go over there and throw a bucket of cold water over her!"

# # # #

When no-one was watching, Betsy slipped away from camp and followed the path Dusty had taken to feed and water the horses. She listened out for the snorts and snickers of the animals as she hurried along, her skirts lifted away from her feet as she moved quickly over uneven ground. At last she caught up with Dusty and took a moment on the edge of the clearing to look at him before he noticed she was there. Her face broke into a broad, loving smile as she realised he was chatting away to the horses just as easily as he talked to people, if not more so. The horses even responded now and again with little snorts of air through their nostrils as he clanked their buckets and wandered between them, checking their hooves for stones and stroking their necks and flanks.

Finally she moved forward down the small grassy slope that led to the creek and called out to her friend, excited to have these precious moments alone.

Dusty looked up on hearing his name, and he grinned back in delight when he saw who it was. "Hi, Betsy!" he called, pulling himself up straight and hitching his thumbs into his belt. "What are you doing out here?"

"I snuck away," Betsy grinned back. "No-one knows I'm gone!"

"Gee, you know they'll send out a search party," Dusty told her.

Betsy shrugged. "I'm so quiet, no-one ever notices I'm gone until it's too late," she laughed. "So, what are you doing? Just feeding the horses?"

"Sure," Dusty shrugged back. "Want to help?"

"Well, not really, I mean, it's not that I _don't_ want to help, I was just coming to say hello, and..." Betsy wanted so badly to kiss him, but she also wanted to hold back and let him come to her, just like Lulu had suggested. She fidgeted, not really knowing how long it would be before any of the others realised both Dusty and she were missing from camp at the same time.

Dusty meanwhile, had moved down the line of horses to his beloved Freckles, who whinnied softly at his master's approach. "Freckles likes me, don't you, Freckles? Yeah." Dusty murmured, nodding along with the pony who bobbed his black and grey head up and down. "Freckles knows I'm a gentleman."

"Oh, yes. How is your nose, Dusty?" Betsy asked. _Besides a little out of joint?_

"Oh, it's okay. I _guess_." For all the fuss he'd made earlier, Dusty now seemed almost disinterested in the question. He was running his fingers up and down the sides of Freckles' face and the pony was rumbling happily in his throat, batting his long black eyelashes.

"If it's any help to you, I thought Mr. Brookhaven should have looked before he opened the door," Betsy went on.

"Hmph," Dusty replied, gazing up into Freckles' eyes.

"Dusty...?" Betsy said hesitantly.

"Hmm?" Dusty was completely distracted now, nuzzling his cheek against Freckles' soft, velvet snout.

"I might only have a few minutes," Betsy went on, hoping against hope that he would take the hint and kiss her.

"For what?" Dusty said, letting Freckles chew gently on the brim of his hat.

"For...for being here. You know..._alone_."

"You're not alone," Dusty said, tickling the long wiry hairs on Freckles' chin. "You're with me. And Freckles, and Blarney, and Bessie, and..."

Betsy watched, dismayed, as Freckles flapped his big, rubbery lips against Dusty's face and deposited a smear of horse spit across the young scout's cheek. "I know, Freckles," Dusty murmured in a low, cooing tone. "You like me, don't you? Yes, you do."

"Well, gosh, Dusty, perhaps you and Freckles would prefer to be alone?" Betsy said, suddenly feeling stupid for chasing after Dusty in the first place and realising she couldn't kiss him now, even if he wrapped both arms around her and swept her off her feet. Not with horse spit all over his mouth.

"What?" Dusty finally appeared to acknowledge Betsy's words, but by the time his brain had processed the information she was already half way back up the grassy slope, her skirts clutched in both hands and her long dark hair streaming out behind her. "Now what was _that_ all about?" he asked himself. He watched her for a few moments more, then shrugged and turned his attentions back to Freckles.

# # # #

Betsy skulked back into camp feeling miserable and thwarted. _And I was right,_ she thought as she slipped easily back into her routine while the others went about their business, _no-one even noticed I was gone. _

She sighed and picked up the item of clothing she had been mending, which happened to be one of Dusty's shirts that was fraying slightly at the collar. She held it to her face and breathed it in. Even after several washes she could still smell him on it, a subtle scent like burnt woodchips.

Between the double acts of Dusty and Mrs. Brookhaven and Dusty and Freckles, Betsy wondered if she stood any chance at all. She sighed again and set quietly to work on the shirt.

She didn't know how much time had passed when she caught sight of someone approaching out of the corner of her eye. She glanced up to see Dusty standing there. He looked vaguely sheepish, although Dusty had a tendency to look vaguely sheepish even when nothing had happened to cause it.

"Hi Betsy," he said a little awkwardly. He seemed to be holding one hand behind his back.

"Hi, Dusty," Betsy replied, equally awkwardly, and blushing.

"Here, I got these for you," Dusty blurted, whipping his hand out from behind his back to reveal a bunch of small and slightly wilted flowers. "I don't know what they are. With my luck they'll be poison ivy."

Betsy stared at the little flowers, looking for signs of malevolence. They were small and innocuous with scrubby looking leaves and pale orangey-yellow heads, nothing frightening about them at all.

"They're not making me itch, if that's what you're worried about," he said, defensively.

"Oh, no! I'm not worried about that at all!" Betsy said, reaching for the flowers with delight. "I'm just very surprised. I can't remember the last time anybody brought me flowers!" She put her nose to the tiny petals and inhaled deeply. They smelled of nothing at all. The only thing she could smell was the pungent and lingering scent of horse.

"They ain't much to look at, but they were the only ones I saw growin' nearby that Blarney hadn't eaten," Dusty explained.

"They're beautiful," Betsy smiled. The thought that he had bothered to pick anything for her at all meant more to her than what they looked- or smelled- like. With just that one sweet gesture, he had redeemed himself in her eyes.

"One other thing," he said, shyly. He shifted from foot to foot, staring at his boots. "I...um...I think I was meant to kiss you, wasn't I? I mean, when you came by to see me just now. Only, I was too stupid and I didn't."

"Oh, Dusty!" Betsy couldn't believe what she was hearing. She hoped he had reached that conclusion by himself and hadn't been struck by a freak bolt of lightning or something.

"You know I ain't a quick thinker, Betsy," he said sheepishly.

Betsy's heart melted like warm syrup over a gentle flame. "Dusty, of _course_ it would have been lovely if you'd kissed me, but, well, I suppose I overreacted a bit by storming off like that. It wasn't very grown up of me."

"Well, it was only after you'd gone that I thought of it," he admitted. "When I realised that Freckles' lips ain't half as warm and sweet as yours."

"Oh, _Dusty_!"

"Plus, you don't spit on my face or tickle me with a scratchy ol' beard."

Betsy laughed and shook her head. "Thank you for noticing," she smiled, knowing that in a roundabout way he was genuinely complimenting her. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. You're shaped different." He looked at her then, and the way his blue eyes danced over her made Betsy flush right through with a sudden tingling heat. "A _lot_ different."

Betsy didn't know how to respond to that, although her body didn't seem to be having any trouble at all. She clutched the small bouquet of flowers tightly and stared back at him, wondering what exactly was going through his mind.

The silence was abruptly broken when Mrs. Brookhaven seemed to appear out of nowhere and descended on them both with a big, beaming smile. "Dusty! I've been looking for you everywhere!" she cried.

"Oh, Hi, Mrs. B," Dusty said, switching his attention effortlessly from Betsy to the banker's wife. "I was just tendin' to the horses."

"Oh! You say it so matter-of-factly," Mrs. Brookhaven tittered. She smiled at Betsy and noticed the flowers. "Why, those are nice flowers, Betsy dear! What are they?"

Betsy shrugged, holding the flowers out for Mrs. Brookhaven to look at. "Dusty brought them for me," she explained.

Mrs. Brookhaven took them in her delicate, gloved hand and peered curiously at them. "What on earth are they?" she wondered aloud, as though she had never seen a simple wildflower before in her life.

To Betsy's horror, Dusty reclaimed the flowers and plucked one of the better specimens from out of the middle of the bouquet.

"Here, Mrs. B," he said, handing the tiny bloom to the delighted older woman. "This one's for you."

"Why, Dusty!" Mrs. Brookhaven's voice dropped a tone and she became almost coy as she accepted the humble offering held out between Dusty's thumb and forefinger. "What a darling gesture! Thank you so much! You _are_ a gentleman!"

Dusty turned back to Betsy and held the flowers out towards her. "Here, Betsy, you can have them back now," he said, quite oblivious to the look of chagrin on Betsy's face. "I'm sure glad you liked them and everything."

Speechless with indignation, Betsy could only watch as Dusty proudly hitched up his gunbelt and strode off across the clearing alongside Mrs. Brookhaven, whose dainty laughter drifted back on the air and sliced through the schoolteacher like a cold knifeblade. And then she noticed Lulu, who was standing at the back of the wagon with her arms folded, shaking her head as though she had witnessed the entire exchange.

# # # #

"Mrs. Brookhaven? Are you sure you're not gonna cut too much off?" Dusty fidgeted nervously as Mrs. Brookhaven placed an embroidered tablecloth around his shoulders while he sat on a wooden stool in front of her.

"Dusty, dear. It's just a trim," Mrs. Brookhaven smiled sweetly. "You'll never get a job at one of Carter's banks with hair like that. Why, you're beginnng to look like a girl!"

"I don't want to work in one of Mr. Brookhaven's banks," Dusty protested, staring upwards through his long, untidy fringe as Mrs. Brookhaven carefully removed his hat. "And I don't look like a girl! How many girls do you know that shave?"

Mrs. Brookhaven thought for a moment, then smiled charmingly. "Carter's niece, Gertrude," she said, then covered her mouth with her hand as she giggled.

"Boy, I never would have come out West if I thought I was gonna have to get my hair cut," Dusty muttered, his shoulders slumping.

"Now, do sit up straight, Dusty, we can't have you squirming around." Mrs. Brookhaven began combing his lengthening locks, pulling them forward until they covered his eyes completely.

"Hey! Who turned on the dark?" he exclaimed.

"You see? It's a ridiculous length! I'm surprised there aren't birds nesting in it. Now, where did I put those darling, ivory-handled scissors of Carter's?"

Dusty turned his head this way and that, but he couldn't see a thing. "Mrs. Brookhaven, do you know anything about cutting hair?" he asked, wondering where she was.

"Why, yes, I do. I used to trim Mitzi's hair all the time." Mrs. Brookhaven snipped at the air in front of Dusty's face- he would have lost a hank of hair if he hadn't pulled back at exactly the same time.

"Mitzi?" he panicked. "Who's Mitzi?"

"My poodle," Mrs. Brookhaven replied, advancing with the scissors once more.

# # # #

"Mrs. Brookhaven! _What are you doing_?"

Betsy and Lulu, suspicious of Dusty's whereabouts, had appeared around the stagecoach and were standing open mouthed with horror at the sight in front of them. Dusty was sitting on a wooden stool with a tablecloth around his shoulders- a tablecloth that was covered in clumps of light brown hair, as was the ground around the legs of the stool.

Dusty's hair.

"Mrs. Brookhaven! Stop!" cried Betsy, darting forward to wrestle the scissors out of Mrs. Brookhaven's grasp.

"Why, Betsy, dear, whatever's the matter?" Mrs. Brookhaven looked genuinely puzzled. "I was only giving the boy a trim!"

"What is it?" Dusty asked, terrified as Lulu came over and stared at his head. "Am I bald?"

Lulu picked up the comb and began running it through Dusty's hair, using the fingers of her other hand as a stylist would, pulling and shaping. "No, Dusty, you ain't bald. In fact, I hate to say it, but Mrs. B's done a pretty good job."

"There! You see?" Mrs. Brookhaven said, attempting to reassert herself. "There really isn't much difference between poodles and men."

"Sure can't argue with you there, Mrs. B," Lulu grinned, combing the now shortened lengths of hair around Dusty's ears. She stepped back and beckoned Betsy over. "See here, Betsy? He don't look too bad after all."

Betsy stood in front of Dusty and had to admit the enforced haircut had turned out okay. Dusty looked like a chastened puppy, but his hair was neat and tidy round his ears. She took the opportunity to run her fingers through it. "I suppose you're right," she murmured, running her fingers over his scalp, looking him straight in the eyes as she traced a fingertip around the shell of his right ear, smiling as she felt him shiver slightly. "He _does_ look a lot neater."

"Well," Dusty said in a small voice, "as long as you girls think I look okay..."

Betsy stroked his ear again, resting her hand against his neck. "You look very handsome, Dusty," she said warmly. "But you shouldn't just let people bully you into doing things that _they_ want you to do." She ran her thumb along his jaw, tilted his face up to look at her. He was so trusting.

"Betsy, dear. I wasn't..._bullying_ Dusty," Mrs. Brookhaven protested.

"It's okay, Mrs. B," Dusty said, relaxing. "I know you were only trying to get me a job in one of Mr. B's banks."

"You were what?" said Lulu, turning to fix Mrs. Brookhaven with a glare.

Mrs. Brookhaven pasted an innocent look to her fine-boned features and plucked at the fingertips of her gloves while she looked benignly from Lulu to Betsy and back to Lulu. "Where's the harm in giving the dear boy a foot up the ladder?" she said, smiling at each girl in turn.

"Ladder?" Dusty said, his eyes wide. "What ladder? Mrs. B, first you cut my hair off, and now you're gonna make me climb up a _ladder_?"

# # # #

Betsy and Lulu were having a discussion in the wagon.

"She's taking over his life!" Betsy said, distraught. "Cutting his hair? Fixing him up with a job? Next she'll be adopting him!"

"She sure is treating him like a new toy, I have to admit it," Lulu mused thoughtfully. "I don't think Mr. B's happy about this either, bein' pushed outta the way by Dusty, of all people. This whole chaperone business just ain't workin' out, Betsy. We got a happy couple all right- but it ain't the right couple. We gotta get things back to how they were."

"How are we going to do that?" Betsy said, woefully. "We can't keep troubling Mr. Callahan!"

"Betsy?" Lulu said, leaning forward with her manicured hands on her knees. "This calls for Plan B."

# # # #

That evening, after supper, Dusty was sitting at the Brookhaven's table while Daphne Brookhaven poured him some tea. He stared at the pale brown liquid in his dainty china cup with the blue and yellow flower pattern. He sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose.

"Carter was like you once, you know," Mrs. Brookhaven was saying. "He was always rich, of course- his parents were wealthy before him. But he was once quite naïve, trusting, almost loveable, I suppose." Her eyes seemed to mist over momentarily. "Of course, he'd hate to hear me say it."

Dusty peered suspiciously into the sugar bowl before picking out a sugar lump and biting the edge off it. "If I had a lot of money, I'd use it to help people," he said, enjoying the sweetness of the sugar on his tongue. "Like when I thought I had that treasure map."

"But, Dusty, you saw how greed corrupts people," Mrs. Brookhaven said, slightly ashamed. She looked at the tablecloth. There were strands of Dusty's hair still on it.

"Yeah. Everyone left me and ran off to find the treasure, and I ended up being killed by a bear." Dusty sipped at his tea, unsure of whether he liked it or not. It definitely tasted better with lots of sugar in it. "Mrs. Brookhaven?" he asked. "Were you always rich?"

Mrs. Brookhaven twisted the large diamond ring on her wedding finger, her huge eyes almost luminous in her small, fine-boned face. She looked up at Dusty with a sad smile. "No, Dusty, I wasn't," she said.

Dusty was about to say something in return, when they both heard loud shouts and laughter from the main part of the camp site.

"What on earth is that unfamiliar noise?" said Mrs. Brookhaven. "It sounds like Carter laughing!"

"Come on, Mrs. B!" Dusty said, jumping up from the table, glad to be abandoning his tea. "Let's go find out what's going on!"

Dusty and Mrs. Brookhaven rounded the corner to see that everyone else was engaged in a lively game of horseshoes. Mr. Callahan had stuck the metal pole in the ground just far enough away from the campfire so that they had light but wouldn't be in any danger of being burned or accidentally throwing the metal shoes into the flames. It appeared that the big wagonmaster was refereeing, and there were two teams involved- Andy and Betsy versus Lulu and Carter Brookhaven. Betsy was standing with her arm linked through Andy's while Lulu jumped up and down and cheered as Mr. Brookhaven launched a horseshoe at the pole.

"Oh, Mr. B, I do like a man with good aim!" the showgirl cried as the horseshoe struck the pole with a loud clang and curled neatly around it. As the haughty banker strutted back to his team mate, she threw her arms around him and planted a huge kiss on his cheek.

"I say!" Mrs. Brookhaven said to Dusty, clutching the young scout's sleeve. "How brazen!"

"Don't worry, Mrs B., that's Lulu, that's just how she is," Dusty said affably, patting Mrs. Brookhaven's hand.

"Not with _my husband_ she isn't!" Mrs. Brookhaven exclaimed, affronted. "And Dusty, look! Look at Betsy and Andy!"

Dusty's eyes grew wide and round as he watched Betsy lean over to Andy and whisper something in his ear, then laugh musically as Andy put his arm around her waist and drew her into his side.

"How brazen!" he exclaimed, in much the same affronted tone as Mrs. Brookhaven had used.

"I don't understand it," Mrs. Brookhaven said, puzzled. "Carter never behaves like this! He never laughs this freely, not unless one of his rivals goes bankrupt! I don't understand it, Dusty!"

"And I don't understand why Andy's movin' in on Betsy when he told me they were just friends!" Dusty muttered, feeling his ears burning and his blood racing.

Betsy was throwing the horseshoe now. She laughed gaily as the metal shoe spun through the air and missed the pole by about three feet.

"Oops!" she cried, turning to Andy and burying her face in his chest.

Dusty pulled several conflicting faces at once, hunching his shoulders and curling his hands into fists. "Why, that snake!" he huffed.

"That hussy!" Mrs. Brookhaven declared, watching Lulu drape her lithe frame around Mr. Brookhaven's little, stocky one. "Come along, Dusty, we're putting a stop to these shenanigans right now!"

The two of them strode through the camp site and planted themselves right in the middle of the horseshoe arena, Mrs. Brookhaven shooting daggers at Lulu and Dusty glaring at Andy in a manner that he hoped looked more threatening than it felt.

"We-ell, look who's here. If it ain't my little pal," said Mr. Callahan loudly. "We need a Team C, Dusty, how's about you and Mrs. Brookhaven join in the fun?"

"Carter!" Mrs. Brookhaven said shrilly. "Is this what you do when my back is turned? Have fun?"

"I'm so dreadfully sorry, my darling," Mr. Brookhaven said mournfully, letting go of Lulu and pushing the showgirl to one side. "I don't know what's come over me. I'm afraid that with you paying so much attention to Dusty, I am but a rudderless ship, drifting towards the barren rocks of a deserted wasteland."

"He better not be referrin' to me," Lulu pouted, planting her hands on her swaying hips.

"Oh, Carter! Have I really been neglecting you?" the banker's wife cried, her face a picture of dramatic overkill.

"Oh, Daphne, I'm lost without your loving guidance!" the old millionaire confessed, throwing his arms wide.

Mr. Callahan rolled his eyes as the two Brookhavens embraced as though they'd been apart for half a lifetime.

"Don't ever leave me again, Daphne!"

"Oh, Carter! Never! I'm a Brookhaven, through and through!"

"And now, if you _are _through, we've got a game to be getting on with," said Mr. Callahan, wearily.

But Dusty hadn't finished yet. He strode over to Andy and Betsy as menacingly as he could and stood in front of the embarrassed looking pair with his feet planted firmly apart. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Horseshoes?" replied Andy, innocently. "It's a game, Dusty. See, you get your horseshoe, and you..."

"Not horseshoes," Dusty interrupted, "although it sure is a fun game. I mean, all this kissin' and stuff. Who said you could do it? _Mr. Callahan_?" he turned and shouted across to his wagonmaster friend. "_Who said they could kiss_?"

"Dusty," Betsy said, shyly. "We weren't kissing."

"Yes, you were. You were kissin' Andy, and that's my job."

"It's your job to kiss Andy?"

Dusty rolled his eyes. "No. Don't confuse me, Betsy, not when I'm thinkin'. What I mean is, I'm here to put a stop to this. Betsy, you need a chaperone to stop guys like Andy gettin too fresh. And that chaperone is gonna be _me_." With that, he stepped between Andy and Betsy and fixed the other man with a hard stare. "Pick on someone your own size," he said, putting his arm protectively around Betsy's waist.

"Oh, Dusty," Betsy swooned. "You've been spending so much time with Mrs. Brookhaven lately, I didn't know what to do. Andy was just a convenient shoulder to lean on."

"Well, now I'm back," Dusty announced. "So nobody get any ideas!"

Mr. Callahan sighed gustily. "When Samson had his hair cut it made him weak. Not Dusty- he has to be the other way around!"

# # # #

That night, Mr. and Mrs. Brookhaven retired to the stagecoach fully absorbed in one another once more. Lulu went to the wagon, Andy and Mr. Callahan prepared for the long night of rotating watches, and Dusty and Betsy went for a short walk to the periphery of the campsite where no-one could see them.

"Your hair's cute," Betsy smiled, tickling his earlobe, now visible beneath his shortened locks. "Luckily, Mrs. Brookhaven didn't cut too much off. Although if Lulu and I hadn't gotten there in time, who knows what you would have ended up looking like?"

"I would have ended up looking like Mitzi the poodle," Dusty pouted.

"So. I guess everything's back to normal now," Betsy went on, tentatively reaching for his arm. "The Brookhavens are back together and that whole chaperone business is over and done with..."

"Oh, no, it ain't over with, Betsy. Like I said, _I'm _chaperoning you now."

"You?" Betsy laughed, then realised he looked serious. "You're chaperoning me? Then who's chaperoning you?"

Dusty shrugged. "You'll have to."

"Dusty! That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!"

"Really? The most ridiculous thing I ever heard was a man who coughed up a hairball eight inches wide."

"Oh, Dusty. Please be sensible, just for once! Can't we forget that whole silly chaperone business altogether? It was never our idea in the first place!" She moved closer, running her hands up and down his arms, gazing into his eyes, which were in shadow.

"But, Betsy...if we're not chaperoned, then...who's gonna stop us kissin'?"

Betsy smiled, pressing closer. "Nobody," she said softly.

"But, we ain't supposed to be kissin'."

She lifted her face to his. "Dusty, don't you _want_ to kiss me?"

"Well, sure I do, Betsy, but not with my chaperone watchin'."

"But Dusty, _I'm_ your chaperone. And I can promise you, my eyes will be firmly shut. I won't tell a soul."

"Well...okay, then. Maybe just one." Dusty leaned forward and Betsy sighed, preparing herself for his kiss, when the loud booming voice of Mr. Callahan came foghorning across the way, making them both jump and spring guiltily apart, not for the first time, and probably not the last.

"DUSTY!" the big man yelled. "Get yourself out here, _now_!"

Seated by the campfire, Andy shook his head and laughed at the look of sheer delight on Mr. Callahan's face. "That was harsh, Cal," he said as they watched Dusty come running, one hand on his hat he was moving so fast.

"Did I ever tell you how much I love my job?" the wily wagonmaster grinned as his little pal skidded to a halt and landed on the blanket beside him, his face a picture of wide eyed, butter-wouldn't-melt innocence.


End file.
